Hidden Dragon, Crouching Tiger
by Desmothenes87
Summary: Neal & Peter investigate a series of unexplained robberies from various museums in New York City. After each heist only an origami figure is left behind. Their investigation reveals an unexpected thief & glimpses into the darker aspects of human nature. Chapter 18: Epilogue - Peter laments the loss of his disposable income...
1. A Second Look Costs You Nothing

**A/N: **Greetings readers. If this is your first time finding this story, welcome and I hope you enjoy. If you are a regular reader thanks for your continued support. Word of warning, I like to edit my stories so if you come back and things are a little different don't panic.

This story is rated T for some language and plans to introduce minor adult themes in future chapters. I will always warn you in an authors note, if something might be triggery. I hope you enjoy... Reviews are always appreciated and I love peoples thoughts and suggestions. If you want something included in a story I will do my absolute best to accommodate you, so don't be shy about asking. No slash though.

I gain nothing from writing this story and all characters from the show are simply borrowed for entertainment purposes.

* * *

**A Second Look Costs You Nothing**

The case started on a Thursday with a small green origami dragon left at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

Normally a discarded piece of paper wouldn't be cause for alarm. Unless of course it's discovered inside a locked case containing priceless works of art. So where a two by four inch Lapis Lazuli lion once lived, the little dragon sat in pristine condition, taunting both FBI and museum staff alike.

Perhaps the curator was so furious because, while the theft appeared to take place in the middle of the night, no one noticed it until shortly before the museum was set to open. A few angry phone calls later, and Peter was called in to deal with a pissed off man in his fifties, who was going red in the face from screaming at two contrite looking security guards.

A review of some security footage revealed that despite cameras in every gallery and several alarms on the cases themselves, the lion, a Da Vinci sketch of child and Madonna, and a gold necklace engraved with figures of the Egyptian god Bes had vanished in thin air.

Calming down the curator had been a difficult job ,and Neal's comments to the man on the impressive skill of the robber didn't help. Finally, Peter managed to get out a "Sir, right now only two people care about finding your missing art, and one of them is fast losing interest." The curator had huffed and sputtered, but in the end went off to find pictures of the missing pieces and gather all the paperwork on their histories and value to the museum.

After hearing Neal's somewhat smug comments about the theft, Peter normally would have interrogated the man, or at least checked his tracking anklet data. Except the two of them had been pulling an all nighter, to go over surveillance reports from one of their current cases. For a moment, Peter was tempted to interrogate Neal anyway, but Neal would probably find it flattering that Peter thought he could be in two places at once.

Neal himself was intrigued by the little dragon, and kept carefully turning it over and over in his fingers, while he examined it with a critical eye. Something in Neal's eye, as he regarded the piece, made Peter think the conman knew who made it. Once he even thought Neal opened his mouth to say a name, but after another minute Neal just said it was an impressive piece of work and handed it over for processing.

The lab boys, who dusted for prints, had no luck either. No prints latent or otherwise, were found, and they said the paper could be purchased at any local craft store for a couple dollars. The dragon itself was in absolutely perfect condition, but, not holding with traditional origami techniques, this little figure had small cuts around the feet to represent claws.

Of course now that the lab guys were finished, the little dragon was somewhat less pristine, which Neal considered a desecration to a fine representation of the craft. Peter frankly didn't care since there were still no clues left behind that could lead to an arrest. It appeared the thief's only goal was to taunt them.

A search of the FBI's and Interpol's databases, the next day, revealed no similar heists from other museums local or worldwide. This succeeded in amplifying the frustration felt by the entire white-collar division. And, after working for almost 48 hours straight and checking out alibis, the museum staff and security guards were all cleared, ruling out the possibility of an inside job.

* * *

Exactly one week later, just when the media stopped sensationalizing the robbery, they dubbed 'The Phantom', the two smallest moon rocks, and the spikes from the stegosauruses tail, disappeared from the American Museum of Natural History. In place of the moon rocks now sat a little origami monkey holding what appeared to be a tiny yellow banana.

Neal was delighted by the little monkey, commenting to Peter about the artistic skill it took to create origami of such detail. Peter had to admit these figures were beyond the typical origami crane he'd learned how to make in third grade. But when Neal proceeded to launch into a supernaturally long and boring story on the history of origami and how its development influence modern culture, before Peter gave him an icy glare to make him glue his lips together, while they interviewed the the museum staff.

Seven days later five paintings and a statue were taken from the Guggenheim including: van Gogh's "Mountains at Saint-Remy", Duchamp's "Study for Chess Players", Seurat's "Seated Monkey", and an iron Degas statuette entitled "Dancer Moving Forward: Arms Raised".

In place of the statuette were three origami birds: a chicken, a rooster and what Neal identified as a phoenix, complete with fiery red plumage. Peter had a strong desire to crumple the figures in his fist as soon as he saw them, but instead let the little birds be taken into evidence.

"This is ridiculous," the senior agent grumbled the next day in White Collar's conference room. "There is absolutely no rhyme or reason to these thefts, other than those damn pieces of paper. Usually when thieves steal something their not so... so…" Peter waved his hands emphatically searching for the correct word, "versatile," he concluded, and then pulled a face as if that still didn't quite fit with what he was trying to imply.

The other agents in the room had worked with Peter long enough to know better than to add their two cents during one of Peter's frustrated rants. Any question asked was rhetorical so they waited, knowing in a moment he would ask for a lead, any possible scrap of evidence, that might lead to an arrest. Neal however, never had qualms about interrupting Peter, or any sense of self preservation.

"Some people like the heist for the thrill Peter," Neal tried to explain. "There doesn't have to be a reason for the specific art they selected, just the act of theft itself."

Peter knew Neal was only trying to help, and had a very valid point, but the agent was feeling tired and frustrated. He had barely seen his wife during the past two weeks, which made him feel worse. Rolling his eyes he added with a scoff, "The voice of experience has spoken." Peter knew it was petty to jump on Neal, but if anyone knew about entering a life of crime solely for the thrill, it would be his partner.

Choosing to ignore the jab Neal continued, "I just meant if we're looking for their next heist based entirely on some sort of artistic preference we're probably going to hit a dead end Peter. There has to be some other motivations behind these specific thefts."

Peter knew Neal was right, but that still did nothing to fix their current situation. All three museums were desperate for their art and artifacts to be recovered. Even NASA had placed a very angry call to Peter, that had him on the phone for over an hour explaining how he appreciated the importance of the space program and was doing everything possible to recover the missing rocks.

The higher ups were also relentless in asking for leads and Peter was feeling the heat. Cases like this were Neal's specialty and Peter needed more than a history of origami if they were to have any hope of solving this thing.

"Any word from your contacts about possible fences", Peter asked again, desperation tinting his tone.

Neal pinched his lips and shook his head. He had presented the facts to Mozzie, who was keeping an ear out for any whisper or rumour of the stolen pieces being readied for sale on the black market, but so far nothing had surfaced. It seemed logical the pieces had disappeared into the hands of a private collector who requisitioned specific pieces, expect Neal couldn't think of anyone who had such eclectic tastes in art.

Since this thief hit each museum exactly one week after the first, they now had six days to figure out the location of the next robbery. Over a dozen museums in New York City made it was impossible to increase security at or stakeout every single every location. Any clue telling white collar where best to use their resources would be invaluable. At least that's what Peter kept stressing since he was the one filling out the reports justifying their use of time and money.

* * *

Sitting hunched over the kitchen table with pictures, lab reports and other interviews and files Peter was forced to remind himself he had found the perfect partner in his wife Elizabeth. The divorce rate among many of his colleagues, who kept similar work hours was unbelievably high, and he still couldn't believe how understanding she was when he missed dinners to stay late at the office, or was up at all hours of the night pouring over case files.

Currently, El was half listening to her husband's somewhat internal musings as she arranged a bouquet of flowers he had bought her in a desperate attempt to apologize for once again, making her eat dinner with the dog.

"If we could just figure out what this person wants we'd know where to set up surveillance. So far he's hit three different museums and stolen some art from mostly lesser-known artists, moon rocks, and part of the tail from the Natural History Museum's stegosaurus. I mean, who steals the tail and leaves the rest of the dinosaur? It's not even the whole tail. Either this thief is intentionally stealing obscure things just to throw us off track, or he's legally insane." He concluded, not feeling any better at the end of his little rant.

Glancing up from the red rose she was currently measuring, for cutting and placement in the vase Elizabeth observed, "Maybe he is just trying to throw you off. Isn't that something criminals like to do? Draw attention away from the actual crime, like when someone trashes a house after a murder to make it look like a robbery gone bad?"

As always, Peter was always impressed by his wife's brilliance, but this time the agent's gut was telling him something just didn't add up. Peter didn't know how he knew it, but something about the stolen artwork gave a clue as to the suspect.

"Why the origami?" He asked to no one in particular. "It's like a calling card, but the figure keeps changing. First, a dragon, then a monkey and now these damn birds." Peter rubbed the back of his neck in frustration.

"Almost seems like something Neal would do," he ventured on, "except Neal is far more of an art connoisseur to choose pieces without rhyme or reason."

"Nothing's by the same artist. Most people have an style or period of artwork they favour but this guy took a Da Vinci and a Duchamp. I didn't even know who Duchamp was before this," He muttered then quickly glanced up. "Don't tell Neal that."

El gave him a little smirk and stuck a tulip between some alstroemeria leaving Peter to continue in his musings. "We have no idea how this person even got into the museum or past the security systems at all. Guards, alarms, locks, and even a freaking laser grid haven't stopped him. What's next?" Peter felt like literally throwing up his hands in frustration

Sensing it was a rhetorical question, El chose instead to walk over and wrap her arms around Peter in a gentle embrace. "You'll catch him hon," she said emphatically. "You always do."

Peter responded by turning and kissing El's lips, the kiss growing more passionate. Thoughts began running through his head about dropping the case for the night and forgetting his frustrations in the bedroom when a sharp knock at the back door killed the mood in a heartbeat. Only one person could have timing that bad and Peter paused long enough wonder if ignoring Neal would go away, when the door swung open and said conman sauntered in.

"Peter, I think I may have a break in the… Oh…" Neal paused, his mouth in a perfect "O" as he observed Peter and El hastily pulling apart. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything," he added a bit of a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Of course not." Peter had gotten used to Neal's spontaneous visits every since he found the him sitting on the couch with his wife and dog during the Dutchman case. But right now he wished for once, Neal would call ahead.

"It's not like showing up at eleven o'clock at night would ever interrupt any of my plans to spend time _alone, _with my lovely wife." Peter let his frustration seep into his tone. May be Neal would take the hint.

Or not...

"Well alright then," Neal gave them his most endearing smile. "In that case I'll make sure I stop by more often, just so you two can fully enjoy the pleasure of my company."

Peter gave Neal that wide-eyed, disbelieving look he always got when Neal said or did something that meant he was ignoring sound advice given to prevent future incarceration.

"Not happening… ever Neal. Evenings are my "Caffrey-free time" with my perfect wife, which doesn't include international art thieves. Next time call ahead."

"Alleged international art thief, I was never convicted," Neal couldn't resist pointing out, and with El present felt brave enough to add. "So because I ruined your chances of getting lucky tonight you're throwing me out." At after midnight it was probably the wrong thing to say because Peter grabbed Neal's upper arm and pulled him towards the door.

"You can tell me your brilliant ideas tomorrow Neal."

"Judging by the clock it is tomorrow," Neal protested, and then rushed on realizing he was pushing Peter's level of frustration beyond what the agent normally allowed. "I'm sorry Peter the getting lucky comment was out of line, I just came by because I figure out the location of the next robbery."

There was a brief letting up of pressure on his arm and Neal seized the moment. "The origami figures, the thief is telling us which exhibit he'll strike next."

Peter stopped pushing, torn between finishing the night with his wife, and the desire to see how this new information might lead to a break in the case.

El was gracious enough to make the decision for him, knowing Peter wouldn't be able to concentrate if he thought any piece of information on a case was being kept from him.

"It can't hurt to hear what he has to say hon, he **did** come all this way to tell you and if it helps you solve the case…" she let her words trail off, and gave Peter "the look". The same one she used to get him to listen to Neal after the man had been accused of stealing the pink diamond. It worked every time.

Neal wisely said nothing and let El perform her magic, but couldn't resist his rather sad puppy dog eyes.

"Fine," Peter replied, releasing his grip, immune to both looks, or so he told himself. "Alright. Tell me me what you've found, but please be certain Neal. You know how much we need this one."

As much as Neal could be all jokes and coy, flirtatious smiles he also understood how important each case was to Peter. And after their almost three year partnership Neal's desire to catch the people they were after moved beyond a simple desire to stay out of prison.

"I'm certain," he said and sat down a the table.


	2. A Single Conversation With A Wise Man

**A/N** - In case anyone is interested all the art I have written about, with the exception of the Jakuchū exhibit, is at the location described. Jakuchū's art was recently displayed at the National Gallery in DC in commemoration of the Cherry Blossom festival, but it fits perfectly with this story so I took some 'artistic' liberties.

Oh, and I like J.K. Rowling's writing style and am leaving clues about future heists and my characters pasts that will become relevant in later chapters. See what you can find... Cheers.

* * *

**A Single Conversation With a Wise Man Is Better Than Ten Years Study**

"Soooo," Peter said sitting next to Neal. "What information is so important that you barge into my house at 11 at night to interrupt me 'getting lucky'"?

"Oh that could still happen." Elizabeth had a glint in her eyes as she took a seat at the table across from Neall.

Neal had the grace to show mock horror, before continuing. "The origami figures, that's the clue we've been missing. This guy's practically drawn a map to where he'll strike next."

"Neal the figures are clean," Peter wanted to believe there was some clue they had been missing, but no matter what the lab boys tried there were no fingerprints, no DNA, and no invisible ink saying 'to catch me go here.'

Neal wanted to roll his eyes, but was pleased at his self-restraint. Sometimes Peter didn't appreciate showmanship, something that Neal understood in spades.

"Peter, each figure represents something the suspect took in the next heist. Look..." Neal grabbed Peter's files and shuffled through till he found the pictures of the origami figures. He also laid out the photos of the stolen items.

He pointed at the the dragon. "Some people say dragon myths are merely sensationalized stories about dinosaurs. In the next robbery those spikes from the stegosaurus's tail were taken." To punctuate his point Neal slapped the picture of the stegosaurus down below the other photo.

"That's a bit of a stretch Neal," Peter began, but Neal plowed on.

"At the Natural History Museum we found that little monkey. Seurat's "Seated Monkey" was stolen from the Guggenheim the following week. And at the Guggenheim he left not one, but three origami birds. None of those figures are well known origami designs, and I'm wiling to bet they were all specifically chosen. Look!"

Reaching into his inner suit pocket Neal produced a brochure. "This past week the Frick introduced a special exhibition on Japanese art painted by Itō Jakuchū."

Peter made a gesture for Neal to continue and the man's whole face lit up. "He's simply amazing Peter. This guy lived during Japan's Edo period, when the country had mostly closed itself off to the rest of the world, so the fact that he borrowed techniques from countries outside of Japan is a true testament to his artistic talents."

Neal was becoming more excited by the moment. "During his life he created the most fascinating paintings by layering different pigments on lengths of silk. His collection of thirty-scroll has only recently been reunited. It's considered a Japanese cultural treasure symbolizing the harmony of nature with…"

"Neal!" Peter quickly interrupting Neal's excited, and rapidly flowing diatribe. He appreciated Neal's passion for art but at the moment he couldn't care less about anyone's artistic aspirations.

Neal seemed to jump a bit at Peter's sharp retort, which surprised the agent. Neal was ever the picture of calm, even in the middle of the most stressful situations. After a second though the mask of calm slid perfectly into place. "Sorry, it's just the Frick is outside my radius. I've been wanted to see this collection every since I heard about it, but it hasn't ever been shown together outside of Japan and my situation has you know… made travel there difficult."

While Peter didn't think Neal barged into his house simply to pull a con job, Neal was the king of killing two birds with one stone. "If you just want to see the exhibit you're better off asking."

"Peter, I'm surprised you think so little of me," Neal exclaimed with a look of mock hurt before opening the brochure to the centerfold, which showed several photographs of the scrolls. "Not that I wouldn't be eternally grateful if you escorted me," he quickly added. Past experience had taught him, if he pushed enough Peter usually gave in, just for some peace and quite.

"Why this exhibit?" The agent asked, now genuinely curious.

"Jakuchū studied with Ooka Shunboka, an Osaka based artist known for his bird and flower paintings," Neal continued and at another warning glare concluded. "Jakuchū followed in Shunboka's style and was particularly fond of painting chickens and roosters. A couple of his paintings even include phoenixes."

Peter pulled the brochure away from Neal and studied them with a furrowed brow, going over Neal's evidence in his mind.

"This actually makes sense." He looked up and Neal beamed.

"My expertise is second to none Peter".

"Yeah, yeah… you're the Albert Einstein of the art world."

"I'm definitely more of a Leonardo da Vinci, you know a renaissance man," Neal pointed out but decided he had worn out his welcome when he saw Peter's pinched face.

"So tomorrow, seven o-clock we plan our attack, damn the torpedoes full speed ahead." With that Neal all but dashed out the door before Peter could make any of his orange jumpsuit threats.

* * *

The following morning came way to early for Peter's liking, but with a promising new lead and five days before the next heist, Peter arrived at FBI headquarters in a relatively good mood.

He was even in a good enough mood to let Neal bore the other agents with a history lengthy of Jakuchū's art and how the origami figures, pointed to the Frick's new exhibit. Neal was in his element, as he once described Jakuchū's style, how the art was created, and the symbolism the pieces held for the Japanese people. If it weren't for the stress of the case, Peter would have found the information far more fascinating.

Peter also knew Neal liked people to appreciate his knowledge and skills even if it was only from an alleged point of view. That desire to be recognized and appreciated was probably why Peter finally caught Neal after their three-year cat and mouse chase. Neal may have walked into a trap over Kate, but he left enough clues for Peter because he wanted the agent to know how good he really was.

Like a child, Neal desperately wanted attention. Peter still didn't know everything about Neal's past, but he often wondered if Neal had anyone who offered him the affection he needed during those early years. Neal didn't seem to be so traumatised by his past that he couldn't cope, but there was a story there Peter wished Neal would tell.

Working with Neal also taught Peter the value of giving the younger man proper accolades for law-abiding activities. As he told Neal, 'It was far better when Neal worked with them than against them. Neal's knowledge of all things criminal made it dangerous when placed in a room of shiny things, but it also made him the best partner Peter could ever ask for. Peter had a feeling Neal's vast knowledge was tied into that past he remained tight lipped about.

And if Peter was honest with himself he let Neal talk because he really did not want to have to put up with him pouting the rest of the day, which often occurred when he wasn't allowed to force his art expertise on the less knowledgeable white-collar agents.

"The Frick hasn't been targeted yet, and Caffrey's line of reasoning about the origami does make sense," Agent Clinton Jones concluded after Neal finished his presentation with a flourish, including his own little versions of the origami shapes left at each scene. Peter wasn't sure if Neal's own creations were because he loved the craft, or because he couldn't bear to let the agents think another artist's skills surpassed his own. Peter suspected a bit of both.

"But all we know from this is that the suspect will most likely hit the Frick," Agent Berrigan cut in. "Even if Caffrey's theory is correct the thief takes art from other exhibits in the museum, that has nothing to do with those figures. I mean, how do we know what other items he's after? The Frick's a big place. Too much extra security, he might get suspicious and change targets."

"He'll stick with the plan, even if he knows we're watching the place," Neal announced.

"That what you would do?" Peter raised an eyebrow.

"Maaaybe… Allegedly…"

"Look," Neal finished, considering how best to make his next statement.

"This person left something to represent the location of his next heist. Either he's very arrogant and correctly assumed you guys weren't smart enough to figure out his clues, or he did it because he wants you to know his plans.

Arrogance or statement, that sort of person won't let a little thing like law enforcement ruin his score. This guy is good, not a single piece of evidence to show how he got in and out, not even a glimpse of him on the security cameras. If he didn't want you to know anything about him he would have taken the art and left nothing. He's practically begging for your attention."

"Is this the voice of experience talking, or the voice of regret?" Diana quipped, poking at Neal's need to sign his own forged bonds which led to all sorts of problems down the line.

Exaggeratedly rolling his eyes Neal answered, "I may or may not have reconsidered a couple of career choices I've made, mainly the one to share my extraordinary knowledge of art with unappreciative philistines also known as the FBI. But even if my expertise comes from some of my alleged work, that doesn't change its value."

Stopping the exchange before Diana and Neal's verbal sparring reached full force Peter cut in.

"I think we can all agree Neal's expertise in this area is sound," (Thank you Peter) "However since it has been pointed out, and rightfully so by Diana, that we don't know exactly what the thief is going to steal we still need a plan that considers not only the Jakuchū exhibit, but other potential art as well."

"We're being watched on this," Peter continued, needing the agents to understand how much was at stake.

"Three museums in three weeks, this isn't a single random act, it's a spree. We need to catch this person before they decide they've had enough and retire to some exotic island with their score."

"A second-rate island, those painting aren't worth that much," Neal muttered loud enough for everyone to hear. At the Peter's glare Neal quickly added, "I just think you need to consider inflation Peter, the value of the dollar is a bit shaky right now."

Knowing Neal was intentionally trying to work him up Peter promptly ignored him, and addressed the actual agents, leaving Neal to sulk with only his origami friends to sympathize.

"We need ideas. We have to keep surveillance inside and outside the Frick, but still not spook our guy… even if he is a megalomaniac who will try to rob a museum watched by the Feds," Peter quickly added when Neal looked like he might stop pouting long enough re-point out the thief's egotistical tendencies.

"Maybe the Frick would let us pose as security guards," Diana suggested. "Museums are adding extra security because of the heists, and dressed as guards we won't look like we're onto him. We can still have teams watching the exits and a team in the van to coordinate everything.

"I call dibs on not being in the van," Neal jumped in. "My skills are put to far better use impersonating members of law enforcement."

Peter pulled a face. Between letting Neal play a rent-a-cop, with his insufferable cockiness when masquerading as the law, and listening to him gripe for hours about how suffocating the van is, the agent had yet to decide which was the lesser of two evils.


	3. Unless We Change Directions

**A/N**: Thanks to everyone reviewed, favourited or is following this story. For those offering suggestions, I am working on including our suggestions. The information on the Japanese exhibit and the Chinese parable I took almost word for word from the National Gallery of Art's website. All credit to their writers.

* * *

**Unless We Change Direction, We Are Likely to Wind Up Where We Are Headed**

After carefully consideration, much sulking on Neal's part, and a team of agents assigned to the van who emphatically agreed if they were going to have to be cooped up in a tiny medal box, the equation did not include a pouting Caffrey, Neal won.

He and Peter, along with Diana, Jones and a handful of other agents would be dressed as security guards and stationed at various locations throughout the Frick museum. Peter wasn't sure at first, if Hughes would let Neal pose as a security guard, but after some careful consideration, and a few threats to Neal to stay out of trouble, Hughes agreed.

It took even more convincing for the museum to consent to a covert FBI presence. As concerned as they were about the safety of their art, there was always the flexing of muscles and pounding of chest that went with any territorial disputes. Days of careful negotiations with the curator and more promises that Neal would not steal, borrow or even think about borrowing any of the museums art, and the deal was set.

All previous thefts occurred between approximately eleven pm and three am. Because of concerns the suspect would be casing the place ahead of time, the agents and all surveillance had to be set up during the seven pm shift change, of the guards, after the museum was closed.

Peter hoped Neal was right and this thief was arrogant enough to rob the museum even if he noticed an increased presence in security, or made the agents outside. Neal was rarely wrong in these situations, but three museums were missing priceless artwork, and they didn't need a fourth. Peter didn't even want to think about the hell that would rain down on his head if another museum was robbed instead of the Frick.

Neal didn't appear to share Peter's concerns. He was exuberant and practically bouncing with contained energy now that he had finally been allowed to view the Jakuchū exhibit, while the surveillance teams were being put in place. Peter was sure Neal was even more excited since he didn't have to pay the usual 18-dollar entrance fee to see his beloved artwork. As the agent watched Neal examine the art, Peter had to admit it was like watching that wide-eyed toddler in a candy store. Each time Neal stood before a new piece of artwork, his eyes lit up.

Few people appreciated, not just the beauty of the art, but also the technique used by the artist coupled with the history behind each piece. All these elements combined together told a unique story, and Neal was a master storyteller, often able to make even the most art-stunted person find something to appreciate in a piece.

Neal stopped to reverently admire each scroll making a comment or two about the technique used to paint on silk, or the artist's brushstrokes. At one of the scrolls, _Peonies and Butterflies,_ Neal just stood there for a minute or two, staring. His expression was sad, and Peter came up to stand next to him hoping Neal might feel comfortable enough to share.

_"_An old Chinese parable says the legendary sage Zhuangzi dreams that he is a carefree yellow butterfly. He fluttered here and there, a veritable butterfly, enjoying himself to the full of its bent, not knowing it was a dream. Upon awakening, however, 'He didn't know if he was Zhuangzi who had dreamt he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he was Zhuangzi.'"

"That sounds very Matrixy," Peter commented. "Like when Morpheus asks Neo, 'How do you know the difference between the dream world and the Neal world.'"

Neal gave a sad smile. "There have been so many days in my life when I wished I was dreaming, and could just wake up, prison… the plane with Kate. But I have so many memories that wouldn't be real if I was dreaming. And I don't want to lose those either."

Peter didn't really know what to say. Neal rarely spoke of Kate anymore and Peter didn't want to be trivial or trite at Neal's rare internal musings. He settled for a gentle shoulder squeeze.

"Let's get into position."

* * *

As the suspected time drew closer the tension grew, flooding the museum like a thick cloud that made breathing difficult. Nobody had figured how the suspect kept entering the buildings, so no one knew where to expect him.

It was rather dark, and although Peter wanted to keep the lights on for better viewing, concerns that drastic changes to the museum would spook the thief so he kept the light levels to a minimum.

"Give me you status." Peter called through his radio.

Immediately he heard the voices of his agents reporting in.

"Just keep your eyes pealed, this guy is a damn Houdini," Peter told them after the last, "All clear," from Jones.

Although everyone was on pins and needles, it wasn't until almost an hour and two radio checks later that the commotion started.

A crash could be heard followed by some swearing and Neal, from a few rooms over, hoped whatever had fallen wasn't a priceless piece of artwork.

"The suspect is in the Oval Room," the garbled words running over the radio waves were difficult to make out.

"I'm pursuing him into the East Gallery, I need backup."

Then a moment later. "We lost him. Someone needs to get these lights turned on."

As the commotion continued Neal bolted through the Garden Court into the Music Room, his internal map of the museum playing out in his head. Unless the suspect went out the East Gallery's only window he would be forced into the Music Room.

There were three exits in Music Room. Two opened into the East Gallery and the third Neal had just entered through so all three exits would be blocked, hopefully cornering this person once and for all.

His flashlight scanning the room, and Neal strained his eyes against the darkness, searching for a glimpse of movement. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, he was relieved to not see any ropes dangling down so there was little chance the skylight would be used as an exit point.

The other agents' calls continued, their volume and tone showing the level of frustration they were experiencing at this chase.

"There he is." The voice sounded like Agent Willingham's.

"Freeze FBI."

"Damn-it, he's fast."

"Does anyone have eyes on him?"

Another crash and some more swearing and suddenly Neal felt someone slam into him, a glancing blow against his hip. The surprise of the hit more than the force knocked him off balance, as the person flew by, sending Neal into the rows of chairs surrounding the room's grand piano.

Brushing off the stabbing pain from both his hip and his shins, Neal pushed back up to his feet and sprinted through the doors in full pursuit. Minus his flashlight it took Neal a moment to get his bearings in the Garden Courts, but the light from the city flooded through the room's massive skylight provided some natural illumination.

Neal finally saw their unknown thief at the far end of the long gallery by the south end of the room's long fountain and pool. Another agent who had entered the room made a lunging grab for the suspect, but with an impressive acrobatic move, that would make any gymnast proud, the person stopped almost mid stride, and twisted out the agent's grasp.

The agent was not so sure footed and the splashing and choking sounds of someone spitting water told Neal said agent had ended up in the pool.

The mysterious thief was now out the room's south exit and heading down the connecting corridor towards the entrance hall.

* * *

Peter originally positioned himself in the Living Hall, a central gallery that would give him the best access to eight different rooms of the museum.

Neal wasn't the only one who could create a virtual map in his head, and Peter sprinted through the South Hall and made a hairpin left turn in the East Vestibule, taking him into the entrance hall.

Although the Living Hall had a doorway leading into Garden Courts, Peter opted to go around that room in case the suspect made it past his other agents, which seemed to be the case, based on their still frantic shouts. Although chatter was still coming over the radio, Peter tuned everything out after he got a fix on the suspects latest position.

Through some illumination from the front doors Peter saw their suspect pause, for what looked like a breath, by one of the large curved reception desks, which hugged the walls of either side of the room. In a lunge that even impressed himself, Peter dove forward tackling the guy to the ground.

A sickening crack the could be heard followed by some desperate gasps for breath as they both made contact with floor. Immediately Peter groped around for his flashlight, still putting pressure on the struggling body beneath him.

His right hand closed around the cool medal cylinder and the agent managed to flip the light back on, shining it down where he thought the suspect's face was.

For long moments all that could be heard was a strangled wheezing, coupled with some desperate choking breaths, as Peter remained frozen in place, the light reflecting off the a small, almost chalk-white face.

Staring back at him with wide blue eyes, struggling to force air into his lungs was a child.

* * *

**A/N**: I hope you enjoyed the twist. If you have time, please leave a review, FF even provides a box below so there is minimal effort involved.


	4. To Know The Road Ahead

**A/N**: WARNING! This chapter does contain mentions of child abuse, selective/traumatic mutism, and other medical and psychological info. I don't think it's graphic enough to change to an M rating, but if you have concerns don't read. Nothing is graphic, but I don't want anyone to be shocked.

At some point, aspects of this story will drift into AU because I came up with the concept before the fourth season. My little OC has his own back-story, and I am currently deciding how much to include. Thanks for your continued support.

* * *

**To Know The Road Ahead, Ask Those Coming Back**

Peter remained frozen in shock for what felt like hours, his eyes glued to the pale face beneath him.

It seemed like an eternity after his tackle, but probably only a minute later the power came flickering on, illuminating the museum and the room Peter was in.

Other agents were now rushing in, full of shouts and agitation, all wanting a piece of the suspect who had caused weeks of grief.

Another strangled breath pulled Peter from his astonishment stare and the agent looked down to see the child desperately trying to force air into his lung.

Tiny hands clenched and unclenched, and the wheezing sounds grew more alarming by the second.

As reality came crashing back Peter realised his tackle had placed him on top of the kid and he still had a significant portion of his weight on the child's chest.

Shoving himself backwards, Peter saw the small chest finally begin to rise and fall with more ease, although the wheezing breaths continued.

"Someone get a bus," Peter commanded, as his other agents crowded around to get a good look at their newly captured thief.

Gasps could be heard from the surrounding throng, and a few "Oh my god's, shit's and damn's…" echoed through the group.

Realising he, a full-grown man, had just landed with more than half his body weight on a child not older than six or seven; Peter was worried to touch the much smaller figure for fear he would cause further injury.

Every medical class he'd been forced to take, discussing head injuries, traumatic falls and internal bleeding bounced around in his head.

The terrified blue eyes staring up at him told the agent he had to do something so Peter tried for the best comfort he could manage knowing, 'Cowboy up' would not resonate well with anyone.

"You're okay, just breathe. It's going to be alright." Peter desperately prayed the breathing would become less ragged and he hadn't broken any ribs in his earlier enthusiasm.

"Where's my bus!?" He shouted again.

Gradually the child's breathing evened out and little fists slowly unclenched sending colour back into the whitened knuckles and fingers.

The fear remained evident in the wide-eyed stare, framed by strands of blond hair peeking out from under a black knit hat.

"Bus is on its way boss," Diana spoke up, after a brief conversation into her walkie-talkie.

Peter breathed a sigh of relief and glanced back down at the small body still supine on the ground.

"Are you okay?" the agent asked the kid hoping for some sort of response. Anything to break the room's tense mood.

A moment later the agent sensed someone kneel next to him and he saw Neal out of the corner of his eye. Neal didn't say anything but his face was fixed on the child's, and a second later the conman reached over a grabbed the kid's hand in a gesture of comfort.

The kid gripped back, his little hand clinging to Neal's fingers, face still pale and eyes frightened.

Peter couldn't be sure but he thought Neal whispered something sounding like, "Una necne procul totus".

Either the child hadn't heard him or a he didn't care because aside from the steady rise and fall of his chest he remained frozen.

Peter glanced up at his agents, feelings of helplessness playing across his face. Years of training and experience failed him. As an agent you catch your suspect, lock him in cuffs and he goes to jail. 'Sorry, if the cuffs are too tight, but you shouldn't have broken the law, enjoy prison' was the general mindset.

The agent had read stories about children committing crimes, even kids who killed other kids. But he rarely dealt with any child in his line of work aside from the occasional witness or child of a witness. Mostly he let someone else talk, like Diana or Jones, interview with them.

Perp-walking a kid out of the museum was not going down as the highlight of his career.

* * *

A few hours later Peter waited in one of hospital's hard plastic chairs, for a doctor to give the final verdict on the little thief. Thief might not be the best word because despite three statues now missing from the Frick's West Gallery, the child had nothing on him. It was like the art had disappeared into thin air.

Peter was starting to believe the kid was some sort of diversion allowing the actual thief to get away, except the acrobatics and speed described by the agents who chased him all over the building gave him pause. Past experience had taught him kids were often more resourceful than adults gave them credit for.

Not having seen the chase himself Peter was willing to consider that his agents might be exaggerating the kids skills a bit. It wasn't everyday twenty agents from the FBI got schooled by a suspect half their size.

Peter heard someone sit down next to him and looked over to see Neal taking a seat in the other chair.

Neal looked exhausted and kept surreptitiously rubbing at his shins.

"Sooo… this wasn't what I was expecting." Neal commented upon carefully straightening up.

"You mean the fact that our only suspect should be watching Sesame Street instead of embarking on a life of crime, or the fact that I gave a six-year-old a concussion." Peter knew he was just doing his job, but still felt guilty. He wasn't even sure El would tell him it was alright after he confessed this to her.

"I didn't know Big Bird taught B&E, but it has been a while since I watched." Neal commented, trying to make Peter feel a little bit better.

"What if I broke it?"

"The lamp on the reception desk did break, kind of happens when they fall on the ground."

"I meant the kid."

"Oh." Neal wasn't sure what to say. "Kids are resilient. At least I was. Besides, I don't think you did him any permanent damage. He seemed more shocked than anything else."

Peter just sat there thinking, and watched Neal rub at his shins again.

"You hurt?"

"I'm fine." Neal shrugged him off. "Fell into some chairs when the kid ran into me. Caught me by surprise more than anything."

Peter was willing to let Neal lick his wounds in private. He jumped to a different topic that had been bothering him since he museum. "What did you say to him?"

"Who?" Neal stretched his legs out trying to find a more comfortable position.

"The kid... You whispered something while he was lying on the floor."

Neal looked puzzled for a moment. "Oh, I just told him everything was going to be okay."

Peter was about to tell Neal that didn't sound like what he said when the doctor walked over. "Agent Burke?"

All previous thoughts were forgotten, as he jumped to his feet. "How is he? He is a he right?"

"The child? Yes, he's male. I'd put him at about six, may be seven years old, but he's pretty small for seven. Some bruising and other contusions, most likely from the fall, but tests didn't show any signs of a head injury or any broken bones."

"Has he spoken?"

"No." At the concerned look the doctor continued. " There doesn't appear to by anything physically wrong with him, children can sometimes develop a sort of selective mutism, when placed under extreme stress. It's often called traumatic mutism. I believe he'll talk when he's ready to."

"I landed on in pretty hard, and he couldn't breathe. You're sure there were no cracked ribs?"

The doctor shook his head. "More than likely that occurred because the fall forced the air from his lungs, due to the sudden compression of the chest muscles. The layman's expression is 'having the wind knocked out of you'. We did x-rays and there is no evidence of any recent breaks. In young children especially, their bones haven't fully calcified and are more flexible than adults. That _give_, allows children's bones to take a bit more stress before breaking".

"But you still said recent breaks?"

"That's what I wanted to talk with you about. This kid has around a dozen old healed fractures, to various bones in his body. He also has multiple old bruises on his chest, back, arms and legs that are in different stages of healing, many around two to four weeks old. By there location I'd have to say he was physically abused."

Horrible thoughts began to flood Peters mind. "Only physical abuse?"

"When we suspect physical abuse we check for other things as well. There was no evidence of trauma that would suggest. sexual abuse such as bruising or tearing. My best guess would be that didn't happen."

"Can I we talk with him? He was found at a crime scene. We're still trying to figure out what happened."

The doctor gave a sad smile, but gestured for them to follow him. "I can't guarantee he'll talk, but you can see him."

* * *

Peter walked into the room with Neal a few paces behind him. The kid was sitting on the bed curled up in a ball with his arms wrapped tightly around his legs. He was dressed in some generic grey hospital pants and a top. Blue eyes peeked over his knees and long golden blond air framed his face and fell to his shoulders in the back. He didn't move a muscle, or look anywhere near as afraid as before. He just stared at the two men, blinking ever so often.

"Hi… I'm Peter," the agent tried a gentle tone of voice. Dealing with children wasn't his strength, but Peter could handle himself in a pinch. He just pretended he was talking to an adult, but kept his tone calmer.

"Can you tell us why you were in that museum?"

"Can you tell us your name?"

Now Peter was starting to feel frustrated. "Parent's names? They must be worried about you and we'd really like to call them." _So they explain why they let their six year old begin heading down the path to a featured spot on America's Most Wanted. _Peter refrained from adding.

Silence was the only response.

Peter looked over helplessly at Neal. He needed something to go on since no missing child reports matching the boy's description had been filed.

Neal stepped forward, offering his most brilliant smile. "What's that?" He asked reaching forward, and with his usual, graceful sleight of hand plucked a quarter from behind the child's ear.

He held it out for the kid to take. The trick normally received giggles and applause from dozen's of delighted young children, but this kid only followed the conman's hand movement's with his eyes and refused to reach for the coin.

"Tough crowd," Neal remarked.

"What's a quarter when you have millions of dollars in art," Peter couldn't help but respond, feeling frustrated.

"Maybe you make him nervous," Neal hissed back. "You did almost crush him."

Peter was about to come up with a retort, but then berated himself for looking unprofessional and arguing in front of a potential suspect or witness, or whatever the hell this kid was. He chalked it up to lack of sleep. Tt was now almost five in the morning and no one had gotten any rest in over 24 hours.

He tried a different tactic. "If somebody made you do this all you have to do is tell us. You won't be in any trouble."

Nothing.

"The doctor said somebody has recently hurt you. Did they make you do this?"

A pin dropping would have been a welcome sound to end the deafening silence.

Peter sighed. He had reached the end of his rope and was going to have to wait for social services and a child psychologist before trying again.

The FBI had one week to figure out if they had really captured their suspect, or it this was like everyone suspected, a ruse. But, with no origami figures left in place of the three missing statues, they had no idea where the next target might be.

Peter was not looking forward to facing the bosses in a few hours.

* * *

Comments or suggestions, I am open!


	5. The Gem Cannot Be Polished Without

**The Gem Cannot Be Polished Without Friction, Nor A Man Perfected Without Trials**

"Is this a joke Burke," Hughes had that pinched look on his face; the one usually reserved for Neal when the coman made a suggestion of questionable morals and intent.

"I wish I was sir." Peter couldn't even begin to describe the frustration he felt by this turn of events. "The kid was the only person we found at the museum, and we couldn't even find any evidence of a break-in. It's like he… _teleported_ in there," the agent finally concluded, trying to give some explanation as to why a six year old suddenly appeared in the middle of their operation.

"Please tell me you are not using the word teleported anywhere in your report?" Hughes grit out.

"I'm just saying we don't have a lot to go on Sir." Peter wasn't sure if he could say anything, in front of his superiors, to make this situation better.

"And the missing statues weren't in the museum? Did your men check everywhere?" Hughes didn't look like was having any better luck controlling his frustration than Peter.

"They triple checked sir, with the museum staff. If the pieces were in the Frick we would have found them."

"And I suppose the statues _teleported_ out of the museum the same way the kid got in?"

Tempers were running high and Peter knew it might get worse. From the moment the first call came over the radios everyone was secretly celebrating that their hard work had paid off and the art would be recovered.

Now all they had to show for it was a mute kid sitting in their conference room, and more questions than answers. There was nothing to connect this kid to the robberies other than his location, and no DA would file robbery charges against a child without hard evidence.

"I think we should contact the media," Peter stated.

"And do what? Announce to the press a prepubescent child, not old enough to vote, drive, or shave is responsible for millions of dollars in priceless antiquities missing from four of New York's museums," Hughes demanded. "Christ, he's not even old enough to steal a kiss from a girl."

"I was stealing kisses from girls when I was in diapers," Neal pointed out but at twin glares from Peter and Hughes settled for muttering to himself, "I just think it's important to point out one is never to young to be able to elicit adoration from the opposite sex."

Knowing Neal was just trying to relieve some of the room's tension Peter ignored him and continued. "No sir." Peter continued as if Neal hadn't interrupted.

"We have no idea who this kid is and he isn't coming up on any local or national missing person's reports. But the fact that he was in the museum on the night of the robbery, dressed for a break-in is too much of a coincidence to ignore. He's part of this somehow; I can feel it, even if it simply as a diversion. The Frick doesn't allow visitors under ten into the galleries. That means he couldn't have somehow snuck in with a group or was left by someone, and hid because he was scared. If we can identify him, maybe we can find out who's really behind this."

"Just figure this out sooner rather than later Burke," was Hughes response.

* * *

Diana had been nice enough to sit in the conference and watch the little boy. They still had no name, and all attempts at communication had been met with a perfect, blank stare. The child moved on direct order, or physical guidance and that was it.

Neal, either trying to bond with the kid, or slightly insulted that he didn't like Neal's magic trick at the hospital, kept trying to get him to respond to one of his dazzling displays of con-artist skills.

So far the entire White Collar unit had witnessed some impressive feats such as pulling 20 silver dollars out of thin air, ripping a card in half only to have it reappear unharmed, and getting out of handcuffs in 7 seconds flat. Peter really wished Neal hadn't done that last one, since the white-collar team seemed far more impressed than Peter thought was necessary.

Nothing had worked so far, but that didn't seem to have deterred Neal from his quest in getting the kid to talk.

As Neal and Peter walked into the conference room Diana was colouring in a Bob the Builder coloring book, an agent had been found somewhere.

Dressed in his old clothes, of all black, the boy sat watching her, but he made no attempt to colour himself despite numerous attempts encouraging him to join in.

The social worker and child psychologist had both thrown around a lot of pointless words like "numbing, hyperarousal, genetic predisposition, and mood lability". But all their fancy scientific lingo did squat to solve the FBI's problem. No matter what anyone did the kid refused to say a word or communicate in any way.

Neal gave a mild scoff at Diana's colouring ability, as he picked up a red.

"Okay, you do a better job with crayons Caffrey," the agent stated, and shoved the book in his direction.

Neal accepted it and a few minutes later an outline of Bob with his bulldozer was shown in brilliant colour complete with realistic shading and shadowing.

Diana pulled a face. "Show off."

Neal grinned and twirled a crayon around his finger. "Bet you can do better." He held out the colour to the kid expectantly.

"Come on, I know you can do better than Diana."

That earned a snort from the female agent, but everyone waited to see if anything would happen. Neal stayed perfectly still, much like someone approaching a wild animal with food, and not wanting to spook him.

After what seemed like an eternity, the child slowly uncurled from his protective ball and reached for the crayon.

Just as tiny fingers closed around the crayon a commotion could be heard down in the bullpen.

The kid jerked his hand back as if burned and everyone turned at the sudden noise.

A man and two women had walked into the bullpen.

One of the women was clutching at the man's arm, frantically and doing her best to cause a commotion. "Where is he, where is he?!"

"Just calm down Mrs Martin," the other woman tried to sooth.

"Calm down? Calm down? Don't tell me to calm down…" Mrs Martin was shrieking and Peter saw several agents stifle the reflex to cover their ears.

Agent Jones walked over trying to circumvent a problem.

"Ma'am, how can I be of assistance?" No one needed an hysterical woman having a meltdown in the office.

"I want to see whoever is in charge. You have my baby here and no one told me, what kind monster's do you think you are?" Everyone winced and looked around to see if the glass windows would shatter.

Jones held up his hands in a placating manner and the other woman placed a hand on the hysterical women's arm, trying to stop the scene from getting further out of hand.

A moment later Peter walked down with Neal and Diana close on his heels.

"I'm Peter Burke, senior agent, how can I help you?" Peter offered his hand.

The calmer, and apparently older woman, dressed like your typical overworked, underpaid civil servant, stopped the couple from responding by taking the agent's hand.

"Anna Phillips, I'm a social worker with Children and Family Services. We think you have one of our foster kids here. Timothy Caste." The woman held out a picture. "These are Timothy's foster parents Harold and Rebecca Martin." She gestured to the man and woman behind her. Mrs. Martin was tall and thin with dark, curly hair pulled back in a messy bun. Her husband was about the same height with with lighter brown hair which was thinning out on top. Both appeared to be in their early forties.

Peter took the picture and then passed it over for Diana and Neal to see. It was a spitting image of the boy in the conference room, right down to his careful blank expression.

"We haven't contacted you because we don't know his name and he wouldn't tell us. We were going to a press appeal in an hour. How did you know he was here?" Peter asked.

"The social worker who met with him earlier, Ms. Cox, she and I work in the same building. In the office this morning she mentioned meeting with a little boy found in a museum. Her description sounded just like Timothy. Timothy has a history of running away so I immediately called the Martin's and they said he was missing."

Mrs Martin apparently decided waiting to speak was too much because she jumped back in.

"What kind of people do you think you are, locking up a child?" She spit out.

Sensing this was about to get more complicated than the agent wanted to deal with in a crowded room, Peter opted to move the Martin's and their caseworker out of the bullpen and away from an audience for Mrs Martin's theatrics.

"Why don't we talk in my office?"

"I want to see him, where is he?" Mrs Martin was almost obnoxiously insistent.

Peter plastered on his best 'I'm humouring you' smile. "We really need to talk first. Timothy's in our conference room, we have agents with him. He's perfectly all right."

As Neal watched Peter lead the couple and Mrs Phillips up to his office he turned to Diana. "If I had to live with that woman I'd probably turn to a life of crime too."

For once Diana had to agree with Neal. Mrs. Martin absolutely rubbed her the wrong way.

* * *

Once Peter had directed the Martin's and their social worker to sit down the agent dropped into the chair behind his desk.

The only thing worse than children were their hysterical parents.

"Mr and Mrs Martin. We found Timothy at the Frick museum while we were investigating a robbery. Do either of you have any idea how why he was there in the middle of our crime scene."

A moments silence and then because Mr Martin seemed perfectly happy to let his wife do all the talking Mrs Martin's demeanor changed and she smiled and spoke in a sickly sweet voice. "Timmy's always leaving the house without permission. He's been a troubled child since before he was placed with us, and sometimes he likes to run away for a few hours. But he always comes home. That's why we didn't report it; we were worried if we had too many incidents they put him in another home. He's finally starting to get settled in; another change would be so traumatic." The woman glanced over at the social worker for help.

"Timothy's had a pretty rough past Agent Burke," Mrs Phillips cut in. "He was found wondering the streets at age three, and no one was ever able to find parents or relatives of any kind. He didn't even speak English; all he could tell us was his name. We placed him in foster care, but like a lot of foster children he's had behavioural problems."

"So he talks."

"Yes, all the time. Actually it's getting him to stop talking that's the problem sometimes. Why?" MR. Phillip told him with a smile.

"He's hasn't spoken a word since we found him."

Another exchange of glances. "He was probably scared." Mr Martin spoke for the first time. "Timmy doesn't really like the police, or most adults at all for that matter. Not that a lot of foster kids do, but Timmy won't talk if he thinks it will keep him from getting into trouble."

"Oh I've had a lot of practice with criminal's refusing to admit to crimes." Peter gave a tight smile. "Timothy has old bruises on his body, and numerous healed fractures."

A rather tragic gasp from Mrs Martin. "You think we… He's a boy, he climbs up anything he can manage: trees, the backyard wall, the drainpipe outside his school's gym. He's fallen more than once, and he gets into fights all the time. It's all documented, you can ask Mrs Phillips. We would never hit him."

The social worker gave her nod of agreement.

Peter was starting to feel frustrated. They were answering all his questions but giving him no information of any value. "When was the last time Timmy ran away?"

"Maybe a month ago. We thought things were getting better. We've had him a little over a year, we're Timmy's fifth placement since he was put in foster care. Most kids who enter the system at his age would have been adopted already, but he had problems adjusted. Fighting with other children, the running away, temper tantrums, breaking things when he gets angry. It's actual quite common in foster children, but a lot of parents have difficulty handling those behaviours so they request the kid be moved. It also scares away potential adoptive parents." Mrs. Martin had finally calmed down enough to drop the high pitched tone.

Peter didn't know what to say. What they were describing was the antithesis of the child in their conference room, who had yet to move or talk.

After another half hour of talking, and bringing in Hughes, Peter was forced to let them take the kid. Aside from trespassing they had absolutely nothing they could keep a six year old in custody for. The art had yet to be found, and the crime scene techs had found no child-sized fingerprints on anything in the Frick or previous crime scenes, that might give probable cause for either this or the earlier robberies.

Finally, Mrs Martin made it quite clear if they didn't comply, 'FBI Arrests Traumatised Foster Child for Museum Robberies' would be the front-page headlines.

Mrs. Martin spent a moment fussing over Timothy, smoothing his hair down, and scolding him for worrying her in her falsetto voice. All this time Timothy still hadn't said a word, or even reacted when his foster parents walked into the room.

Neal watched the proceedings with a scowl on his face. He had already made his thoughts on the Martin's quite clear, and seemed rather upset that they would be taking the kid with them.

A moment later Mrs. Martin marched Timothy over, a firm grip on his upper arm. She stopped in front of the group of agents and Neal.

"You apologise for wasting these nice people's time," she demanded.

After a moment of dead silence the kid gave a deep sigh.

"I'm sorry for anything I did to waste your valuable time, please accept my sincerest apology," he stated in a crisp high voice, in what sounded very much like a British accent.

The group stared at him slack jawed as Mrs Martin turned and walked away pulling Timothy with her. The kid turned around just once to stare at them with big blue eyes before he disappeared into the elevator with the three adults.

Neal huffed and turned to head back upstairs. "I don't like that woman. She's…" A pause "...Fake…" he concluded then added on, "And I would know."

Peter felt like that was the general consensus of everyone in the room, but knew there was nothing anyone could do. The Martin's had been warned to make themselves and Timothy available for further questions if needed, but until other evidence appeared nothing more could be done.

Neal couldn't put his finger on it, but he knew a fake when he saw one and Mrs Martin stood out to him like a cubic zirconium masquerading as a diamond. She wasn't just eccentric; she was an illusion. Neal had enough experiences from his own childhood to know when an adult was putting on a front for other people.

As Neal walked back into the conference room something on the desk caught his eye. There, sitting on the desk, folded from a part of a colouring book page, was the perfect origami figure of a dragon.

Neal picked it up, turning it over several times in his fingers, then glanced down in the bullpen to see if anyone was watching. Peter, Diana and Jones were all in deep conversation about this turn of events and the other agents were either watching then or had gone back to work. Slipping the dragon back into his pocket Neal turned and headed back down to his desk.


	6. The Man Who Says It Cannot Be Done

**The Man Who Says It Cannot Be Done Should Not Interrupt The Man Doing It**

"Well no wonder nothing has come up on my radar, since these robberies are perpetrated by a child." Mozzie and Neal were sitting on the Neal's terrace working their way through a bottle of red. "Do you think he needs a fence?" The other man suddenly asked after a moments consideration.

"Somehow I think someone else is pulling the strings," Neal pointed out in between sips.

"He got into Frick while it was surrounded by dozens of Fed's and managed to get three statues out of the museum without a single shred of evidence left behind."

"You're proving my point Moz." Neal just rolled his eyes.

Mozzie was never deterred when a new conspiracy presented itself. "The man who says it cannot be done should not interrupt the man doing it."

"Stop with the fortune cookie quotes. I couldn't have pulled this off at his age, not without help, and maybe not even then." As a thief himself, Neal knew most thefts this complicated involved help from someone on the inside, or months of planning. A person didn't just get in and out of someplace on a whim using only paperclip and some rope, despite what was shown on television.

"Do I detect a hint of jealousy?" Mozzie tipped his head; glass partly raised in his right hand.

"What? No!" Neal paused for a moment, insulted that Mozzie would suggest such a thing. "It's just… We're not talking about stealing candy bars from the local convenience store. These museums have high quality security systems."

"And every piece stolen, is small enough and light enough for a child to carry, which suddenly explains the bizarre choice in art."

Willing to agree with the Mozzie's statement but not concede the point Neal took a breath. "As a thief you really think a six year old could get into four different museums, one with a moving laser grid, and remove hundreds of thousands of dollars in art without any help?"

"He's a foster child." Mozzie told him as if that one statement was the answer to this entire bizarre situation.

"Not all children without parents turn into criminals, present company excluded of course." Neal told him.

"You're missing the point Neal. The government has an almost endless supply of children in the foster care system that they can use for their own diabolical purposes. Numerous governments around the world begin training their children from almost infancy to be mindless drones, bred only to serve the government's purposes. Child soldiers, Olympic athletes… the Hoagies program for gifted kids, I could go on forever."

"Please don't," Neal pulled a face then added. "Come on Moz, _you_ were raised in an orphanage. I don't see any electrodes coming out of you brain from these crazy government experiments."

Mozzie looked smug and added loftily. "I was raised in a privately funded orphanage. Besides, Mr. Jeffries protected me from such schemes by keeping the authorities from becoming aware of my superior intellect and photographic memory. But I can assure you other children left never to be seen or heard from again."

"Probably because they were adopted," Neal muttered to himself, not wanting to hurt Mozzie's feelings.

"I'm surprised you weren't whisked away in the middle of the night by government goons and trained in the coverts arts of lies and espionage." Mozzie looked lost in thought for a moment before snapping his eyes up. "Wait, were you? Skills like yours had to come from somewhere. Even the most gifted individuals need their abilities to be honed."

"Come off it Moz," Neal loved Mozzie's company, but was currently not in the mood for his conspiracies.

Mozzie leaned back and took a long swig from his glass. "I notice you didn't deny my claims."

Neal was about to respond when there was a knock at his door. Since he was not expecting anyone, and Mozzie was already in the apartment, it was either Peter, who liked to turn the tables on Neal and show up unannounced himself, or June.

June's smiling face greeted him when he answered. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything?" She asked pleasantly.

Neal gave her a charming smile. He and June got along famously, but it never hurt to be extra nice to the woman who accepted far below fair market value for the rooms he rented, and let him wear husband's expensive clothes.

"Not at all. Mozzie and I were just discussing some of his more unique thoughts on the workings of the government." Neal told her, knowing the other man would hear.

"Man will never be free until the last king is strangled with the entrails of the last prince." Mozzie shouted from his position still outside on the terrace.

Neal rolled his eyes. "Do you want to come in?"

"Oh no," June replied, used to Mozzie's unique perspective. "I just wanted to bring up a guest. He wouldn't give me his name, but he says he's a friend of yours." She stepped to the side revealing a child with a mop of blond hair framing his face.

Neal looked at him in surprise for a moment, and quickly recovered. "Of course… Uh, June this is…ummm."

"Ender," the kid lisped.

"Ender. He and I met a couple days ago, during a bureau case."

The landlady had a curious glint in her eyes, but knew better than to push. "Well, I'll just leave you two to discuss things." She walked away leaving Neal and the kid engaged in a staring contest.

Neal broke first, mainly because he wanted answers, and wouldn't get them playing of game of 'don't blink first'.

"Come on in." He stepped out of the way and, after another wary glance, the kid slowly walked through the door.

"How'd you find me?" With his past Neal did his best to keep his location from becoming public knowledge.

Ender turned in a circle, for the moment ignoring the question as, while he took in the apartment.

"Is that him?" Mozzie had re-entered the room and stood staring at the kid with the bottle of wine loosely gripped in his hand.

Startled, the child whipped around watching Mozzie with suspicious, blue eyes.

"Oh don't worry," Mozzie held up his hands. "You have nothing to fear from me. Unlike Neal's other, more suspect acquaintances, I am not a supporter of any government power foreign or domestic. After all, 'The worst thing in this world, next to anarchy, is government'."

Ender glanced over at Neal, then cast his eyes over at Mozzie as if silently asking, _What the hell_?

"Don't mind him, he gets cranky when his blood sugar's low." Neal didn't need Ender running from Mozzie's eccentricities. before he got answers. Despite the fact that the kid had clearly come to find him, he looked spooked, and Neal didn't think he would talk if he thought there was someone else in the room he couldn't trust.

Ender still didn't say anything to that but walked over to the easel where Neal was working on a reproduction of Rembrandt's "The Mill".

He reached out a small hand to touch the river the mill stood overlooking and then pulled away, rubbing his fingers together, as if he expected them to be wet. Whether from concerns about wet paint, or thinking the water was real, Neal wasn't sure.

"Looks like one good storm would knock it over." He simply stated.

"The mill?" Neal asked.

The kid nodded.

"Rembrandt was known for the realism of his paintings. Some critics of his work say he was so realistic he preferred ugliness to beauty." Neal remarked.

Ender cocked his head taking in the almost finished work. "But I always thought beauty was in the eye of the beholder." The kid's English accent from the other day was very obvious when he spoke.

Neal wasn't sure how to respond to him.

"So… uh…."

"My name's Ender," the kid prompted again.

"Right… Ender. What happened to Timothy?"

Ender made a face then puffed out his chest, his voice suddenly dripping with sarcasm. "Don't you mean Timmy? 'Oh no Lassie, Timmy fell down the old well'." He paused for a moment. "If I'm going to have a nickname I prefer Ender. It really is me, don't you think?" He looked at Neal as if waiting for an answer, but when Neal just stared at him unsure how to answer the kid kept going. "In case you haven't figured it out, my foster parents a few screws loose."

"And they seemed so nice when we met at the office." Neal finally managed to recover.

Timothy or Ender, Neal wasn't sure which to think of him as yet, kept walking around the apartment, studying the décor. Neal was about to ask something else when the kid's whole face lit up and he dashed over to the bed.

Neal hoped he hadn't left his lock picks out when he realised what caught the kid's attention. Ender had picked up the vintage trilby hat Neal wore earlier and putting it on, stood in front of the mirror to admire himself. It was way to big, and covered his eyes unless he held it up, but for a moment Neal and Mozzie stood enthralled, watching the kid pose and giggle at himself as he admired his reflection, almost like a toddler seeing himself for the first time in the glass.

Finally, Neal snapped himself out of his revere. "So Ender. How _did_ you find me? I'm not exactly listed in the white pages."

Ender stopped for a moment cocking his head to the side and meeting Neal's eye through the mirror's reflection smirked. "Google." He shrugged as if this was the most obvious thing in the world, and kept up his posing. "There was an article about you in the paper, after you jumped out of a building or something, and it said you lived in the big white hose on Riverside Drive."

Great, another way for people to find him that didn't include hacking the FBI's datebase. "Pretty good for a six year old." Neal told him.

"I'm almost seven." Ender looked a bit indignant. Keeping the hat on he turned around, a scowl now marring his features.

"And very brilliant for almost seven," Mozzie jumped in. "I don't know if your aware of this, but those pieces you took are pretty valuable. In situations like this, errr…" He paused trying to think how best to proceed, "gentleman of your particular profession rely upon other individuals to help elicit the transfer of such goods to people willing to compensate them handsomely for their procurement."

"And in case you are wondering, I may either _allegedly_ be one of those individuals, or able to contact a person of suitable skills. For a modest fee of course." Mozzie concluded.

Face going back to disbelieving the kid suddenly blurted out, "Are you drunk or something?"

"What? No!" Mozzie made a startled face, not understanding how his offer of assistance cause the kid to draw that conclusion.

"Then why do you have a wine bottle in your hand, and make no sense when you're talking?" Ender pushed the brim of the hat back out of his eyes again.

"I was bringing it inside." Mozzie stated defensively.

"It's almost empty." Ender shot back, the perfect picture of a petulant child.

"It's called sharing Mon Frere."

"All right, everyone call down," Neal cut in. If he was going to get anything useful he needed to take charge. "I think we need to start over here. I'm Neal and this is my friend Mozzie. He and I go way back so you can trust him." Ender looked at him like he still wasn't sure so Neal added on. "He's just a bit odd, but perfectly harmless." Neal held out his hand signalling their truce.

A moment's pause and then the kid relented shaking Neal's hand. "Timothy Caste. But call me Ender."

"It is you." Neal told him then asked. "So how can I help you?"

"I'm glad you approve I my reading choice." The kid stated then suddenly looked almost shy and glanced at the floor. "You seemed really nice at the office the other day so I wanted to see where you lived."

"That's all."

"Hmmm."

"Nothing particularly important you want to talk about?"

"Like what?" Ender walked over to the dresser and began shuffling through the items on top.

"Like, how you ended up in the Frick after midnight, or why the doctor said you have numerous healed fractures?"

"Or, have suspicious men in dark suits taken you away in the middle of the night and tried to learn the source of your powers?" Mozzie blurted out.

Ender stopped in the middle of piling up the different objects on the dresser into a rather wobbly tower.

"Mr and Mrs Martin haven't hit me if that's what you're implying Neal."

Neal wanted to say there was more than one way to skin a cat, but knew that if he did the kid would really close him off. "The Frick had some pieces of art go missing that night, while you were in the building. Three statues." Neal waited to see if he would get anything from his fishing expedition.

"That's sad. I hope they had insurance so they can get their money back." The tower fell over and Ender stood there for a moment staring at the debris with a distant look in his eyes.

"Are the Martins nice?" Neal tried a different tactic.

A shrug. "They're all right. They like their real kids the best, but they don't starve me or hit me. They just have lots of foster kids. Five of us."

"How many 'real' kids?"

"Two. Derrick and Sadie each get their own room, the rest of us have to share. They say it's because most foster kids don't stay with them that long and it would be traumatic to keep moving people in and out of their kids' rooms." A pause, and then the kid spoke so soft it was hard to hear. "Like dumping your clothes in a garbage bag and moving to a new house every few months is easy. At least they got a home. Even if they have the wicked witch of the west for a mother."

Neal was about to ask something else when Ender glanced over at a nearby clock. "I gotta go. It was nice to meet both of you."

The kid was just about to the door before he turned back around. For a moment little lips pursed as if considering something in deep thought. Then, for the first time he smiled at Mozzie.

"Knowledge will forever govern ignorance; and a people who mean to be their own governors must arm themselves with the power which knowledge gives." With that final pronouncement he flounced out the door Neal's hat still on his head.

"I like him." Mozzie seemed impressed. Of course he was impressed by anyone with a possible future in criminal endeavours.

Neal just stood there staring at the door Ender had disappeared through. "He stole my hat."

* * *

**A/N**: If Ender comes off as a weird kind-of bratty too old/too young mix; he's meant to. The reasons why should be explained better in later chapters.

I like to cast people as my OCs when I write so the picture for this story is the kid I cast as Ender.

D-


	7. When You Want To Test The Depth

**A/N**: For all the Hurt/Comfort/Bromance lovers, I hope this chapter is to your liking. I tried to keep all the characters in character, but I still think it has some good tearjerker moments. Neal talks about his past. I incorporate my own ideas with the info provided in Season 4, so beware of light spoilers. I've created an in-depth histories for all the characters, but probably won't include everything, although I leave some clues within the story PARTICULARLY in Neal's and Ender's interactions.

I am also assuming Neal is younger than in the show, around 27.

* * *

**When You Want To Test The Depth of a Stream, Don't Use Both Feet**

"No Neal!" Peter was starting to feel frustrated, after repeating himself 20 times.

"But Peter…" Neal sat looking at the agent with sad, imploring eyes.

"I said no."

"Couldn't you just…"

"Neal!" Peter interrupted. "How many times do I need to say no, before you'll listen to me?"

After thinking about the situation all night Neal was now desperate to make Peter understand the value in what his was asking for. "Peter, this is a rescue mission. You don't know what they could be doing to him at this very moment."

"I am not authorising use of a tactical team, to retrieve your hat Neal. It's gone, get over it." On days like this Peter was almost 100% sure Neal was a child, whose brain had been transplanted into an adult's body.

"He stole it Peter."

"And now you know what it feels like to have someone else take things your things. Consider it a lesson learned."

With a dramatic sigh, Neal sat back and crossed his arms.

"Are you seriously going to pout now?"

"Yes, actually I am." Neal decided when all else failed he should stick with a response that at least made him feel better if he couldn't get his way. "That was a 1950's vintage Resistol, Peter. The monetary, not to mention the sentimental value is incalculable."

"You have my deepest sympathies for your loss." Although Peter was a bit frustrated that the first real conversation with their only link to the museum robberies didn't involve him, the agent found the smallest bit of satisfaction in seeing Neal have the tables turned on him for once.

Over the few years of working together Peter saw Neal slowly change from a self-absorbed, self-serving criminal, only concerned with his girlfriend and his next score, to a person who truly cared about helping others. Neal still crossed the line far too much for Peter's liking, but everyday he showed new signs he enjoyed his new life as a crime-fighter instead of law-breaker.

And, personally experiencing the loss of something that mattered to him, even if Neal was being overly dramatic about it, was a good way of reminding Neal how his previous actions affected his own victims.

"You're really not going to do anything about it?" Neal gave him one last pleading look.

Peter was ready to throw up his hands. "If the damn hat means that much to you go to the kid's house yourself and ask for it back. Besides, it's not like you haven't got a closet full of them at home."

"You have more hats than I have suits," Peter finally muttered, as he put his signature, in red ink, on a couple reports. Hughes hated it since government protocol dictated the use of only black and blue ink, but the man was forced to admit it was a deterrent for Neal to engage in some of his more questionable activities.

Neal was just about to come up with a witty retort about Peter's suits when Diana walked in.

"Got those background checks you wanted on the Martin's boss."

Peter held out his hand to take the folders. "What did you find?"

"Nothing. They're clean. Model foster parents, even have an award from the Mayor. Rebecca Martin is a child nutritionist and sees clients out of the home; Harold Martin owns a construction company. His company has had a lot of city contracts, but they've worked with many local businesses as well. Both businesses are clean, tax returns all filed on time, and no problems with the law." Peter flipped through the reports as Diana gave him the basics.

"A couple of complaints made by foster children, but nothing that doesn't come with the territory. They were all investigated by CFS and dismissed."

"They have five foster children." Neal cut in. "That seems a bit excessive."

"That's not a crime Caffrey." Diana shook her head. "The family lives in a townhouse in Brooklyn, large enough for the number of foster kids they have. Mrs. Martin inherited the home from her parents."

"Ender said they make all the foster kids share a room." Neal pointed out.

"And he also said the Martins never hit him, and he has enough to eat. Neal, I will admit a lot of foster kids get the short end of the stick, but we are the Federal Bureau of Investigation, not the Federal Bureau of Equality. Sometimes life isn't fair and we can't do anything about it." Peter pointed out.

Neal just stared darkly out the window. "Probably using him as a chew toy for the family dog."

"The kid?" Diana looked at Peter puzzled.

Peter shook his head. "Timothy borrowed Neal's hat."

"Borrowing implies he's planning on giving it back."

"And I am sure there are countless museums around the world who are thinking the same thing about the art that you borrowed." The agent pointed out.

Diana couldn't seem to keep the smirk off her face. "Wow, Neal Caffrey outsmarted by a six year old. Think you'll ever live this one down."

"He's almost seven," Neal interjected. Diana just left Peter the files, and laughed the whole way back to her desk.

Neal sat staring off into space for about 15 minutes, looking forlorn, until the agent couldn't take it anymore. Peter sighed deeply. "Neal, what's going on? There's more to this than just a hat."

Neal didn't respond. His eyes looked distant, like he was remember something from the past.

"Neal?" Peter placed a concerned hand on his shoulder and Neal gave the barest flinch. "I know you like your secrets. But something tells me whatever _this_ is, it's eating you up inside."

Neal looked away for another moment, then seemed to pull himself back together. "I was in foster care once."

"I thought you were raised by your mother and Ellen."

"I was, well some." He paused. "I told you Ellen helped raise me when my mom wasn't there. But I didn't tell you how she got so involved."

Peter waited knowing if he pushed too hard Neal would stop talking.

"Mom just couldn't handle my dad not being there. Whether her problems were self-induced or a biological mental illness I don't know. But she would just check out for days at a time. It got really bad when I was kindergarten; I guess I was around five years old. I took the bus to school so I got there, but some days I didn't have clean clothes to wear, or a lunch to take with me. I did my best to help myself, but I was only five, you know."

Not wanted to stop this rare glimpse into Neal Caffrey's past, Peter remained perfectly still.

"Eventually the school called social services. I guess they tried to talk with my mom after I kept showing up without food or the proper clothes, but they couldn't get a hold of her. Social Services got me at school and took me to a foster home. It seemed like forever before the Marshals sorted things out, and even then they couldn't just raise suspicion and yank me out of there."

"Neal I'm sorry." Peter didn't quite no what to say.

"The first foster family stuck me in a room with three sets of bunk beds. Six boys ages five to fourteen in one room. I had this stuffed tiger named Leonardo that I used to take everywhere with me. My dad gave him to me, so I carried him all the time once dad was gone. One of the boys cut his head and limbs off with some scissors and threw him in the toilet. Then my foster dad smacked me across the mouth and told me not to cry about a stupid toy, especially when they now had to pay for a plumber."

Peter put his hand back on Neal's shoulder and gave it another squeeze.

"I finally got out of there, and eventually got back to my mom. Then Ellen moved in and helped raise me. She told me the truth about my dad a little before I was going to graduate from high school. I already told you the rest."

"Had some really nice people who took good care of me in between those people and going back to my mom. But I'll never forget getting hit by that jerk just because I was sad I lost the only thing I had left from my dad. Guess it doesn't matter about Leo now, seeing as how my dad was a dirty cop."

"It doesn't excuse what they did Neal."

"Life of a foster kid, right?"

Peter dropped his head forward and sighed. "I didn't meant it like that Neal. Nothing excuses abuse. But there is no proof of that here. Do I think Mrs Martin is obnoxious? Yes. But I can't arrest her for being over-dramatic. Without evidence of abuse, or the kids coming forward there is nothing anyone can do."

Neal nodded. "I know. I'm just asking you to trust me. Something isn't right about the Martins."

"I'll give you that Neal. But until we have proof, my hands are pretty much tied."

"I'm all over that."

Peter raised his eyebrows, knowing where Neal's past searches for proof led.

"I'm only going to have Mozzie do his own background check on the Martins. And may be call an old acquaintance."

"No B&E."

"You know me."

"Yes, I do." Peter shook his head; glad they could move on from the earlier emotions. He wasn't quite sure what to say to Neal's story, and Neal didn't need any false sympathy.

* * *

At the end of the day Neal slowly trudged up the stairs to his rooms. Mozzie had agreed to run his own background checks, but it would take a few days to compile all the information. The entire white-collar division was on edge because there were only a couple days left before the thief struck again, and the leads had all but run out.

Tossing his hat onto the table Neal reached for a bottle of wine and poured himself a generous glass, which he took out to drink on the balcony.

Outside, Neal stopped short staring at the table. Sitting in the middle of the table was a little gold origami star, with an attached note written in neat cursive.

Dear Nealcen,

Since you were so generous in letting me have your hat I thought I would give you something in return. New York lights makes seeing the stars so difficult. I don't know if you miss them as much as me, but just in case you do I wanted you to have one of your very own. Stars are really useful when you get lost, especially if you don't have a compass.

-Ender

P.S. I hope you catch the person responsible for stealing from the museums, because they're breaking the law.

* * *

Can anyone guess where the next robbery will be? I left the clue in what Ender left Neal. You have to know your New York Art and museums, or if your feeling really industrious you could do some research.


	8. The Palest Ink

**A/N:** To all the readers, thank you so much. To the loyal reviewers I baked you cookies except I couldn't figure out how to send them via the message system. :( So lots of good Karma instead!

I know this story doesn't have the hurt/comfort/whumpage scenes that seem pretty popular among readers, and I apologise. I have some rough plans sketched for that in future chapters, but I am doing my best to stay true to the show, so too much whumpage doesn't seem to fit. But the next chapter is supposed to have a cute interaction between Peter and Ender since one reader requested that.

Did anyone figure out where the next robbery will be? Read to find out…

* * *

**The Palest Ink Is Better Than The Best Memory**

"Neal… This is by far the worst idea you've ever had. And that's including when we robbed the Uffizi in drag," Mozzie hissed. "And by the way, I'm a spring. That deep mauve made me appear washed out. "

"Next time you can choose your own dress," Neal shot back. "Besides, that job was designed for Alex and I, it's not my fault she bailed at the last minute."

"Neal," Mozzie continued in a too loud whisper. "In all seriousness, if your anklet shows you've been hanging around in the MOMA the night it gets robbed, the Suit will string you up by your ears. And that's only if you aren't back in prison."

"And if this kid sees the feds again, he won't show. He got caught last time. He won't want to make the same mistake twice."

"Ha! Mozzie suddenly exclaimed triumphantly. "So you do think the kid is responsible. "

"Shhhh. Keep your voice down." Neal hissed back, then responded haughtily. "I never said he wasn't involved, I just don't think he's pulling the strings."

"I can't believe you're ignoring the obvious Neal. First, he got it in and out of four museums, and made off with hundreds of thousands of dollars in art without triggering a single alarm. Second, he's a foster kid who's spent his life in the system. Plenty of time to be programmed for government use. Finally, his self-proclaimed nickname Ender. That's the equivalent to wearing a flashing neon sign saying 'I'm your genius thief'."

"You're paranoia is really starting to freak me out Moz."

"Paranoia is simply having the right information."

"And ignorance is bliss."

Neal and Mozzie were currently hiding in the fifth floor bathroom of the MOMA waiting for midnight to roll around. This bathroom had a large air vent the two could wait in until closing. As far as ideas went, Neal had to admit this wasn't his most brilliant. The vent had been cramped and Mozzie was right about Neal's future if he was caught there when art went missing. Neal was banking on Peter and the Marshals not checking his tracking information this late at night, especially since he was in his two-mile radius. He had no curfew, so as long as that light stayed green, he was usually okay.

Neal's only consolation, in case Peter found out, was that if he caught this kid and more importantly the mastermind behind these thefts, Peter would give him a lecture about playing with others, but most likely leave it at that. Peter had forgiven other 'cowboy' type behaviour if they got their man, and after the stress of this case Neal wouldn't be surprised if they gave him a medal.

Neal also knew Ender left the origami star for a reason. Almost every other piece related to a heist and Neal was confident this piece was the clue Ender couldn't leave at the Frick. The most obvious choice was Van Gough's Starry Night, since the MOMA had yet to be hit and Starry Night was the most well known piece of art in New York City involving stars.

Neal also understood the kid. At Ender's age you didn't con for pleasure, you did it out of necessity. Neal first learned the art of the con at age four when he realised people liked you better when you smiled. By age seven he'd discovered talents made you useful, but it also made you a target. And at age nine, he learned lies for the greater good were better than truths told with the best of intentions.

In fact, Neal's entire childhood was defined by shades of black and white. Even if the world defined his actions as egregious, survival made them right. Something was only wrong if it wasn't a necessity, or it was done with malicious intent.

It wasn't until Neal was a teenager that he began stealing just for fun. Because only then did his world suddenly have grey in it, that allowed for such choices.

This was how Neal knew Ender wasn't playing a game for the sake of a game. Whatever mess the kid was in, he viewed this as his only way out. He was a child, and a child's logic differed from an adult's, no matter the kid's intelligence on an IQ scale.

To the casual observer the origami animals and coy notes looked like the work of a spoiled brat, whose parents had yet to give him a much-needed smack to the rear.

To Neal they were a message. _I don't have any other choice._

It had been along time since Neal didn't have a choice, but he still knew what that felt like. In a way he didn't have a choice about his actions now. Breaking in was for the greater good. His actions helped a person who desperately needed him, and that trumped self-preservation.

"Neal!" The conman was caught of guard by a hand smacking into the side of his head.

"There's no need for violence Moz." He rubbed at the spot Mozzie had hit, scowling in frustration.

"I've been calling your name for the past five minutes and you keep ignoring me."

"Just thinking." Neal responded.

"Anything important?"

As much as he sometimes wanted to share Neal didn't think Mozzie would understand. He and Mozzie learned independence at a very early age, but for very different reasons. Mozzie chose his way of life, Neal didn't. Mozzie was that brilliant, bored kid who got sick of being picked on and decided to get other people before they got him.

Neal's childhood choices for often made for him, at least that was what Neal told himself whenever he felt a bit guilty. Thievery, breaking and entering, even the first time he fired a gun were things he did to survive or ensure the survival of others. If he is really honest with himself Neal doesn't regret his past. He did some very good things, and for the right reasons. Neal just knows the world won't understand.

During weeks like this Neal wants to blurt the whole story out, tell someone about his life before he became Neal Caffrey. But he knew Mozzie wouldn't get it. Sometimes Neal didn't even get himself. But he doesn't regret it, just that certain things happened that he wishes he could do differently.

"Not really." He finally responded. "Just want this case to be over."

"Well, next time you want my help, it better not be to hang out in a bathroom," Mozzie huffed. "I feel like a teenage girl."

"We could always paint our nails."

Mozzie was silent for a moment, his face contemplative. "Just as long as you don't tell the Suit."

* * *

After another hour of sitting, and almost wishing they had some L'Oreal 'Devil Wears Red' shellac, Neal startled upright.

"He's here."

"I don't hear anything." Mozzie looked around in disbelief.

Neal crept forward and carefully peaked out the door. Pausing to ensure it really wasn't the security guard, and being mindful of the camera's Neal edged into the foyer and towards the gallery.

Contrary to popular opinion, most robberies do not take place at night with thieves wearing little black ski masks. Usually the theft takes place during the day when a person could blend back into the crowd, or, more often, it's an inside job.

Mozzie followed at a safe distance as they slipped through the shadows towards the Van Gough. Neal felt like he was in one of those ridiculous horror flicks where the kids creep on a line, through the haunted house, hoping not to get caught by the monster. He hated clichés.

Inside the gallery Neal stopped short and stared at the far wall. Starry Night hung in its customary spot, but next to it was taped a sign with an arrow pointing down and the words, "I recommend the stairs." On the ground was an origami guitar.

"Shit," Neal swore. "A piece of art in the MOMA with a guitar?"

"Picasso's, Three Musicians?"

"Too big, remember it needs to be something a child can carry."

"Georges Braque'a, Man and a Guitar?"

"Where is that?"

"The floor below us, east wall of the gallery."

"Damn it," Neal swore again. He looked around doing some fast math in his head. "Just stay here," he hissed at Mozzie. "I'm going to gallery four."

"What do I do if he comes back, he might have a gun?" Mozzie probably detested weapons more than Neal.

"He's six."

Mozzie gave him a frustrated, yet disbelieving look. "That just means he's probably a poor shot."

Neal really didn't have time to argue, they were too thieves in an art museum during a robbery. They either caught the real thief, or Neal should start considering decorating options for his cell.

"Scream like a little girl," was his last piece of advice before he slid back around towards the stairwell. Fortunately years of practice made avoiding security camera's more a reaction than conscience thought.

* * *

The fourth floor of the MOMA was set up almost exactly like the fifth, with one large gallery and a stairwell in the back. Since Neal couldn't think of any good entrance or exit point on these floors that didn't involve a long drop out a window, he was hoping the kid would have to travel up or more likely back down to get out.

Cameras weren't set up between the fourth and fifth floor gallery stairwell, the way they were on others, because that stairwell was exclusive to those two floors. Other camera's watched the galleries themselves but Neal stopped short on the stairs to access the situation before creeping around to get a look at the back wall where the painting hung.

Neal was just about to step around the side when he heard shouts coming from outside the gallery doors in the foyer. He couldn't make out what they were saying but it sounded like the security guards were after someone.

A moment later Neal started when a hand grabbed his arm and it was only from years of practicing not giving away his position, no matter the circumstances, that kept him from making any noise.

"We have to get out of here Neal." Mozzie's voice was insistence, and Neal heard it even as he strained to listen to the other voices.

"I told you to watch Starry Night."

"And I'm not sticking around to be arrested. You're lucky I came back for you."

Neal hesitated for a moment, something very unlike him, since he was usually able to think well on his feet.

"You're not watching the painting." A look of horror passed over Mozzie's face, then in a rare display of clumsiness the two of them all but stumbled over each other as they ran back up.

At the top of the stairs Neal pushed Mozzie towards the door. "Get out of here, I'll check on the painting."

Mozzie didn't need to be told twice because he was gone before Neal could fully get his bearings.

Finding his focus Neal stopped short, starring at a now empty frame, where the painting once hung.

Left, on the floor, in place of Starry Night was a grey origami box with detailing drawn on to resemble an old fashion safe.

Somewhat in a trance Neal carefully opened the box to examine its contents. Inside were ten, new hundred dollar bills of monopoly money and one get out of jail free card. On the card were the words. _Thanks for not tattling to the teachers. I owe you one, but if you square this I think we'll be even._

'Definitely not my best idea,' Neal told himself, deciding a fast exit and a reasonable explanation for Peter was now his best option.

* * *

**Another Note:** Since I'm not a criminal I'm not sure how realistic this chapter is. Probably not as much as I would like, but I think a lot of what we see on television is somewhat suspect, so consider this artistic license.


	9. Many A Good Man

**A/N:** The following scene with Ender and Peter was requested and I wanted to write it as thanks for a lovely review. We don't really see Peter interact with kids so I didn't have a lot to go on, but I imagine Peter might act a bit like this. If not, at least it's a cute, fluffy little scene readers can go awwwww, over.

* * *

**There Is Many A Good Man Found Under A Shabby Hat**

Days like this made Peter wish for tinted windows in his office, or at least some blinds. A contrite Neal sat in the chair across from him, with the little origami box and money resting on the desk between agent and conman. Down in the bullpen Peter could see his agents surreptitiously glancing up before ducking back down, and pretending to work as soon as the caught Peter's eye.

To his credit, Neal had confessed the whole incident with Mozzie, the MOMA and the bathroom at six am when Peter called the White Collar division in. Unfortunately this left Peter with the predicament of what to do with Neal. Peter didn't believe Neal took the painting, or even had anything to do with the theft, other than allowing it to happen by refusing to let Peter in on the loop.

That didn't change the fact that a very valuable piece of artwork had just gone missing and the pressure Peter was feeling was monumental. Yesterday Washington had called to "offer" their assistance, which Peter politely declined. But the look on Hughes' face after he hung up told the agent it was just a matter of times before heads rolled.

"Do you realise how bad this is Neal?" With no idea what else to say Peter blurted out the first thing in his head, then immediately reconsidered. "No, of course you don't, because rules don't apply to the great Neal Caffrey."

Now Peter was starting to feel the vein in his forehead pulse rather painfully. El would tell him to take a deep breath and just calm down. At this point Peter thought nothing short of an oxygen tank and a shot of Valium would help, except he didn't want to check himself into a hospital.

Neal knew he'd crossed the line, but was still deciding how guilty to feel about his actions. He was currently wavering between telling himself he didn't care, and feeling honestly bad for doing something that risked Peter's career. For all Peter's straight-laced rule following, the man always put Neal first, and did everything possible to ensure Neal had a better life. As much as he hated it Neal could feel the guilt seeping in. These feelings weren't just those of pity for himself if Peter lost his job and Neal went back to supermax.

"If he saw you guys he would have just run Peter. I was trying to bring a criminal to justice." Okay, so Neal still wasn't completely above rationalizing his actions when he felt threatened, but it was more of a survival reflex than out of any desire to lie to Peter.

Peter didn't agree because he was seriously considering throwing Neal in segregation for a few days. If nearly four years in prison hadn't deterred Neal from his ridiculous schemes maybe the man needed to realise there were worse things that could happen to him than time in supermax. Or maybe Neal just assumed Peter would simply keep him out of jail. Either way the man needed a serious reminder of who was in charge in this relationship.

It had been bad enough getting a call at three-thirty in the morning telling him Starry Night had disappeared from the MOMA. Then Neal had showed up all innocent eyes, and sorrowful expression, insisting he speak with Peter alone before the briefing. That was the clue to Peter he was not going to like what Neal had to say. What shocked Peter even more was that for once, Mozzie seemed to be the voice of reason. Next time Peter saw that man, he was going point out in no uncertain terms, that the next time Neal planned something this stupid, Mozzie was to hit him over the head and call Peter ASAP.

"This wasn't about justice, you were trying out another one of your I'm above the law schemes, that I hope Peter doesn't find out about ." Peter was doing his best to remain the calm, rational adult in this discussion but felt like it was a losing battle. "Even if our presence scared him off at least we wouldn't be missing another piece of artwork. Did you even think this through?"

"Why do you think we weren't caught?" Definitely the wrong thing to say by the look on Peter's face, but Neal needed Peter to understand this wasn't some completely half-baked scheme he jumped into without a second thought. And unlike the Howser clinic Neal had gotten in and out of the MOMA undetected which saved Peter a lot of explanations, boring paperwork, and stealing of security tapes.

"I even apologised, several times Peter. How many more times do I need to say it?"

Peter's face was one of stunned disbelief. "You're not a little kid Neal. You don't get to knowingly do something wrong and then think all you have to do is say 'sorry' so don't have to face any consequences."

Neal looked a bit distraught. "Does this mean you're not accepting my apology?"

"It means, when you're not here, you're unofficially on house arrest until further notice." Peter at least could take some satisfaction in the expression on Neal's face. The man looked like Christmas had just been cancelled.

Neal took a deep breath so he could stay calm, and not prove Peter's point by whining like a child. "How long?"

Peter shrugged a bit non-nonchalantly. "Until we solve this case."

Neal couldn't control the reflexive widening of his eyes. "Don't you think that's a bit extreme Peter. This case could go on for weeks."

"Extreme?" Peter wanted to laugh. "Good. It's meant to be extreme because our only other option is to make this official, which means arresting you for trespassing, and suspected theft."

"It's been a while since you've been perp-walked out of this office." Peter continued, trying to make Neal grasp how frustrated he was feeling. "Do I need to do start doing that on a regular basis as a deterrent?"

"No, I'm good." Neal had the grace to look a little abashed. "I'll just work on my artwork or something." He concluded, but at Peter's face quickly added. "There's nothing illegal about reproductions Peter. I'm not planning on putting them in any museums, I swear."

Neal wasn't sulking so Peter decided to let it go. "Use your time to figure out where this kid, or whoever is involved, is going next. You've been right about every location up to this point. That little safe, or box or whatever it is means something."

Glad Peter wasn't going to hold a grudge, or send him back to supermax, Neal flashed his most brilliant smile. "When I know, you'll know."

* * *

It was the Saturday after the MOMA theft and Peter was sitting at his dining room table checking Neal's tracking data to ensure the man was at June's. Peter didn't want to officially restrict Neal's radius because then he would have to explain his reasons on paper. It was one thing for the White-Collar division to know something happened, it was entirely different for the account to be engraved in stone, for Hughes and god knows who else to read.

Hopefully a couple days of "time out" for Neal to think about what he'd done would fix everything. Things were easier when Peter and Neal could focus on solving crimes, joking about past cases, and just being guys. When this was over Peter decided he'd show up with a six pack and bottle of cheap wine at Neal's and they could laugh everything away.

Peter was just shutting off his computer when he heard the doorbell ring. "El?" He called to his wife, "Are you expecting someone?"

"Could be the deliver man." Her voice floated downstairs, sounding somewhat distracted. "I'm expecting some sample bouquets to show a client at a meeting tomorrow."

Grumbling that he had to get up Peter glanced first out the window and then through the peephole, but there was no one on the porch.

"Damn kids." He muttered.

Recently some new neighbours moved in down the street with three teenage boys ages, 13, 15 and 17. The late night blaring o music, and obnoxious tricks performed on their bikes in the middle of the street Peter could get over. However he did not appreciate when they stuck bumper stickers on most of the cars on the block, including his Taurus all saying, "Honk if you're not wearing underwear".

Granted, it was one of those magnetic stickers that pealed right off, but still. Getting honked at over twenty times with Neal constantly making comments under his breath about how Peter's driving shortened life expectancy, was more than enough. It wasn't until they arrived at the office and Peter saw the bumper on his car that he realised what had happened. Then Neal didn't help by making a comment about the disturbing number of people who had honked in response.

After "talking" with the parents Peter thought the pranks were over, but if those kids had moved on to the old ring and run tricks from Peter's past the agent in him was bringing out the handcuffs.

The doorbell rang again followed by a knock, but there was still no one was at the door when he looked through the peephole again. Knowing it was a bit extreme, Peter still didn't care. He pulled out his gun and flung the door open.

"I am a Federal Agent." He snapped, gun visible in his hand.

"Cool Glock," came a matter-a-fact voice speaking in a distinct English accent.

Peter looked down to see Ender looking up at him with the most innocent expression possible; Neal's hat on his head.

Taking advantage of Peter's stunned silence Ender gave a little sidewise smile. "It's very nice of you to see you again Agent Burke," he stated as a stepped around Peter and inside.

_Great. Another Neal,_ was all Peter could think instead settling for a sarcastic. "Come on in and make yourself at home."

Footsteps sounded on the stairs and a moment later El appeared. "Hon are those my samples… Oh hello." She stopped short, staring at Ender before looking up with a puzzled expression at Peter.

The kid regarded her for a moment, then gave a very charming Neal like smile. "Hello Mrs. Burke. I'm Ender." He held out his tiny hand. "It's very nice to meet you." He lisped a bit and Peter realised the kid still had most of his baby teeth with one missing in the top row.

El paused a second then shook the little hand making eye contact with Peter and mouthing,_ Who is he? He's adorable._

Peter did not need El adopting any more strays with questionable morals and sticky fingers.

Forcing on a fake smile he knew El would not buy he grit out. "Uh, hon… I told you about Ender, from the Frick case... He just came by to talk to me."

"Oh…okay." El released the hand and watched as Ender gave an equally false smile back at Peter, nodding his head. A dozen memories and conversations flashed before her eyes. She and Peter had talked about children when they first got married and had both agreed waiting until their careers were more established was best. A few years later when the discussion came up again, El found out she couldn't have kids. It was something she came to accept after a few weeks of tears, but seeing a child always made her wonder what motherhood might be like.

"I made cookies earlier. Would you like some?" It seemed like a motherly thing to offer, and it would also annoy Peter who frankly needed to not let things like this get under his skin. Or at least show it on his face.

Ender regarded her, his face flashing a bit of suspicion before his expression cleared. "No thanks. Sugar is bad for you."

At El's expression he clarified. "That's what my foster mother Rebecca always says. She's a nutritionist."

El was surprised that Ender wouldn't accept her offer since the foster mother was nowhere to but scene, but accepted his statement. "I'll just let you two talk then." As she headed into the kitchen she called over her shoulder. "Nice hat."

Ender beamed at her. "Nealcen gave it to me."

_Ha..._ Peter wondered what Neal's thoughts would be when he found that out. Although the agent suspected he was more upset about being conned by a kid than losing his hat.

Ender began to wonder around the living room staring at everything in childlike wonder. After Neal's description of Ender's visit to June's, Peter kept his eyes on the kid's hands, but didn't say anything.

"Are you really Neal's boss," Ender finally asked asked.

"That's right."

Ender pursed his lips together for a moment, clearly thinking. "Than how come he's got a bigger house than you?"

The agent could hear El laughing from the kitchen.

"He's… that's not…" Peter sputtered, not sure what to say. "Neal just lives there. A nice lady named June rents him the rooms."

Ender's face scrunched up like was puzzling things out.

"So why don't you get a job like Neal instead so you can stay in a house like that too?"

Peter was starting to like this kid better when he didn't talk. Children's logic completely baffled him, and he was not in the mood for an argument.

"Because I'm not a criminal," he finally snapped, not even feeling too badly about his loss of temper. "Neal did a lot of bad things during his life and now he works for me, _for free_, to make up for it. In fact, that should be a lesson for you that _bad_ people who do _bad_ things have _bad_ stuff happen to them." May be he could scare the kid into confessing.

"But his house is still bigger." Ender either wasn't intimidated or didn't seem to grasp that he was annoying the agent.

"I just told you it's not his house," Peter exploded.

Ender's eyes went wide and Peter had a second to feel a little guilty before El appeared in the kitchen doorway.

Her voice was sickly sweet. "Peter, could I talk to you for a moment?"

Knowing he was about to be in the doghouse, Peter followed her back into the kitchen trying to dig himself out of the hole he'd made.

"I'm sorry El… That kid is just… He's probably helped rob five museums now, and cost the FBI thousands of dollars in man-hours and equipment, and he wants to stand there and ask me why my house isn't big. He's like a miniature Neal without any sort of impulse control or logic. Speaking of which, lock up the silver."

El gave him her patented, I love you but you're going about this all wrong look. "You can't talk to a child like an adult Peter. You need to stay calm, and explain things in words he can understand. Without losing your temper."

"This kid is potentially responsible for hundreds of thousands of dollars in stolen art. Einstein has nothing on him, he's just acting like this to piss me off."

"If that's true than why are you letting him?" El raised her eyebrows.

Peter paused like he always did when El brilliantly reminded him he was being an idiot.

"Just stay calm. He obviously came over here to talk to you," she concluded. "All you have to do is be nice."

Taking a deep breath Peter walked back through the door. Ender was now seated on the couch, his feet tucked under him, clearly waiting for the agent to return. A cursory glance around the room told Peter nothing appeared to be missing but he made a mental note to make the kid empty his pockets before leaving.

Deciding to take El's advice Peter walked over and sat down in the chair across from the kid.

"So, you obviously want to talk about something. I'm listening…" There. That was calm and it gave Ender a chance to respond without feeling threatened. Score one for Agent Burke.

Ender looked all around the room not making eye contact. "I saw Neal's house so I wanted to see yours."

_Count to ten_ Peter told himself. "That's all?"

"Mmm." Ender shrugged. "Your wife has nice taste."

Looking over at the kitchen door Peter saw El standing there motioning with her hands for him to continue, a grin on her face.

"The MOMA was robbed last night." Peter blurted out.

Ender still refused to make eye contact and began to fiddle with his/Neal's hat.

"Are you going to catch the people who did it?" He asked still looking down. His face didn't really look guilty, more sad than anything.

"I'm trying," Peter told him leaning forward. "If you know something that could help, I'd really appreciate it."

"Why would I know anything?" The kid put the hat on so it now covered his eyes.

"Smart kid like you… I mean, anyone who's smart enough to steal from Neal Caffrey could probably give me some pretty good advice." It was a backhanded compliment at best, but Peter was trying.

Ender peaked under the hat, looking at Peter with big eyes, and insisted. "Neal _gave_ me this hat."

"That's not what he told me."

The hat dropped back down and the kid drew his knees up to his chest. He did look rather pathetic.

"Are the people who robbed the museums going to jail?" He asked in a small voice.

"That's depends." Peter leaned forward and pushed that hat up so he could look at the kid's eyes.

"On what?"

"Well… several things. How old the people are? Are they willing to cooperate? Did someone make them do this?" Peter pulled the hat away and Ender let it go.

For a moment Peter thought Ender might actually tell him something since the kid chewed on his lip, clearly considering what he wanted to say next.

"You got any pets?"

Jumping topics caught Peter by surprise but he recovered quickly. "A dog, Satchmo."

The kid looked around like he was expecting him to suddenly appear.

Peter tried again. "You know stealing is wrong. Don't you Ender?"

Ender ignored him and gave a longing look towards the hat. Then in a very toddlerish moment he stuck his thumb in his mouth, and fixed his eyes on the floor ignoring the agent.

Shocked by the completely childish gesture Peter's lips parted for a moment before he ploughed on. "Ender, stealing?"

"I thold you I thidn't steal da hat." He said around his thumb, still not making eye contact.

"And the MOMA? I know you were there. Just like you were at the Frick."

The kid just sucked harder, and kept sad eyes glued to the hat. The sucking appeared to be a nervous habit and it made Peter wonder what prompted him to hold on to something so babyish. Especially in a kid who spoke like a mini adult.

After a couple minutes of watching the kid suck his thumb with no change Peter tried a different tactic. He knew Neal would be furious at him, but after a moment the agent held the hat back out to the kid. Ender immediately pulled it to his chest, thumb still stuck firmly in his mouth. Peter tried to place the expression. It wasn't miserable, but it wasn't calm either.

At least now Ender met the agent's eyes, even if he wouldn't give up the thumb. Peter had a brief thought about the rising cost of orthodontists before he shook himself from his musings. The kid wasn't his, not matter how cute he looked sitting on the couch, Neal's hat clutched in his fist.

Peter got up and Ender followed him with his eyes as the agent walked over to the hutch where he and El stored bills and other useful papers. He collected a business card and took it back to the kid.

"Here. If you can think of anything important to tell me about those robberies, call… day or night. That's my cell phone number, and I always answer it."

Ender stared at the card for a moment. It seemed like a rough decision over which hand to use, because both twitched a moment. Finally he appeared to compromise because he tucked the hat under the arm, so Peter couldn't take it, and took the card with the hand not at his mouth.

Satisfied Ender was at least listening to him, Peter decided he might not be half bad at this kid thing. If nothing else, bribery was a good option, or so coworkers with children always told him. "El really makes good cookies and I won't tell if you won't."

A moment's consideration and then a nod.

Peter headed back into the kitchen knowing El would have heard the conversation.

"Good job hon," she gave him a smile.

"Yeah?"

"Not father of the year quite yet, but a little more practice and you'll have my vote."

That comment made Peter pause. He and El had both come to terms with not having children. And while the agent fully accepted it, he sometimes wondered what kind of father he would have been. Hopefully a good one.

May be now that Ender seemed to trust him, or at least wasn't just being a sarcastic brat, he could get some useful information. Cookie in hand Peter walked back into the living room.

The kid was gone, hat and all, but sitting on the couch right where he had been curled was an origami figure of a man holding a ball over his head.

* * *

**A/N**: I don't think I made it clear in other chapters, but Ender is supposed to be a genius (i.e. one of those ready for college, child prodigies). However, I still want him to be kid dealing with massive amounts of stress, that I will explain in later chapters. Hence, the thumb sucking when he's anxious. I do lots of research for my stories, and I feel like this response fits with Ender's personality and situation.


	10. It's Better To Light A Candle

**A/N**: Warning: Some child emotional/psychological abuse, and threats of physical harm in this chapter. Nothing graphic but might be triggery for some readers.

This chapter follows Ender and will hopefully provide a little more insight into his character. Borrowed parts of the fight scene from writer, Mr. O. S. Card.

I've also done some major re-writes/edits to the first four chapters and am working on the others as well. Although the story is the same I added more to the scenes and changed up a lot dialogue. Reread if you want, and let me know what you think.

* * *

**Better to Light A Candle Than Curse The Darkness**

Ender checked his watch one more time. It was nearing three and the local little league practices would be ending meaning the kids would begin taking the buses home. Ender learned long ago that bus drivers didn't like letting him on their bus by himself, but getting on with groups of kids or families meant they rarely gave him a second glance.

The Martins usually didn't care what he did, as long as his actions didn't conflict with any of their plans, or "cause my heart any grief" Rebecca Martin was fond of dramatically quoting.

With a few minutes left till the kids started arriving, Ender sat just out of sight of the bus stop, thinking about his visit to the Burkes. He still wasn't sure what he thought of Agent Burke and his wife. Agent Burke appeared to be what Ender thought a typical FBI agent should act like. He was gruff, but not unkind. He'd asked lots of questions, but that was his job so it made it okay, even if Ender decided not to answer them. And Agent Burke was nice enough not to push.

Ender didn't appreciate the agent tackling him to the ground, but after talking with him, he decided the man really was one of the good guys, and he could see why Nealcen liked him.

Mrs. Burke was a little bit more puzzling. She seemed nice, but Ender had yet to decide if she really was that nice, or if it was all an act. She was married to Agent Burke so that might make her all right, but Ender also knew females could turn on you in a seconds notice.

The kids were arriving at the stop so Ender paused to let them start to crowd around before he got up and made his way over to mingle. He wasn't feeling in a social mood today so he kept to himself, but he positioned himself so that he would be in the middle of the crowd when everyone began to board. Desperate to check passes and move again, the driver wouldn't notice he was unaccompanied.

Some of the kids were playfully shoving each other and one of them tripped into Ender sending them both to the ground.

"Watch it." The older boy, of ten or eleven screamed, dusting off his jeans as he picked himself up from the ground.

Ender really didn't feel like starting a fight by pointing out that his only part in this situation was bad placement, so he simply glued his lips together.

The other boy didn't appear to like his silence. "I'm talking to you, midget."

"Ah, let it go Sam, it wasn't his fault," one of the other boys said, turning to toss his baseball over to a friend.

Sam apparently didn't share his friend's sentiment because he loomed over Ender who was still on the ground.

Ender looked up at the older boy. Both his hands stung from the bits of gravel now embedded in them.

"I want you to apologise." Sam growled, balling his fists at his sides.

In a situation that could end badly, Ender didn't want to be the one who it ended badly for.

He silently waited, hoping Sam would blow off a little steam and everything would be over.

Sam took a kick at him that glanced off Ender's arm. Ender recognised the type. Sam was a bully who liked to flex his muscles whenever he felt like he could assert his authority and intimidate someone smaller and weaker than himself. "Stay out of my way." Sam sneered at him again, keeping up his tough guy act since other kids were still watching.

Fortunately Ender saw the next kick coming and reacted. Leaning to the side to avoid the blow Ender kicked out as hard as he could at Sam's left knee. The other boy screamed in pain and toppled to the ground. People turned at the sound, as Sam curled up around his sore leg.

For a moment Ender glanced around assessing the situation. Everyone was staring at them, a bit stunned, trying to figure out what happened.

Then the bus was pulling up to the stop and people turned back around. Sam's friends were still staring and Sam was clutching at his leg and moaning. Ender didn't know if he would ever see any of these kids again, but he knew if he did, he didn't want another scene like this one. Sam was the type to hold a grudge, and Ender wanted Sam to leave him alone if they ever had the misfortune of meeting again.

In New York, where people could walk around near naked and no one batted an eye, they were willing to ignore even some kid who'd fallen on the ground. Everyone else was lining up to get on the bus so Ender gave Sam's friends a glare and then gave the other boy a couple hard kicks to the ribs.

Sam gave another cry of pain and curled up more. Taking a shaky breath Ender grabbed his backpack that he'd dropped to the ground, and walked past the other kids over to the bus. No one tried to stop him or came near his as he took a seat at the back and curled himself up around his bag.

Ender wanted to cry. He hated himself. All he wanted them to do was leave him alone. He didn't even know why he'd kicked Sam again. Or may be he did, and just didn't want to admit it to himself. Ender wasn't a violent kid, even though he had seen violence and experienced it. He'd just wanted to make a point. _I'm not weak. _One of the first lessons Ender had learned during his time in foster care was that if you didn't look out for yourself no one else was going to. His life hadn't always been like that, but adaptation was the key to survival. Ender wanted to survive.

* * *

The bus arrived at his stop and Ender got off the back. The Martin's townhouse was down the block. Ender walked down the sidewalk clutching his bag. Partway to the house he cut behind the houses, moving through the backyards till he reached the Martin's. Although they really didn't care if he came through the front, Ender enjoyed climbing the fences separating the neighbours' yards.

At the back of the Martin's house he climb the oak tree and pushed the bedroom widow up, then ducked inside.

Emily was in the bedroom, sprawled on a bed, reading a book. For the most part Ender didn't mind any of his foster siblings. They all were in the same boat, the unwanted toys, left in the box because society viewed them as broken. Emily was eight years old so she was older than him, but she and Ender got along. Like most kids they bonded because of their circumstances.

"You're in deep shit," Emily told him by way of greeting, without glancing up from her book.

"Aren't I always," Ender muttered.

Emily shrugged and turned the page of her book.

"What did I do, miss a family meeting."

Emily rolled her eyes. Family meetings usually consisted of Rebecca lecturing the foster kids on how ungrateful they were for how she and Harold gave them a home despite the fact that no one else wanted them. It was very inspiring stuff. The meetings usually happened when she didn't feel like the kids were telling her enough how wonderful she was. Ender had learned to tune her out, unless she asked him a direct question.

Sometimes Ender really wanted a real family, with a mom, a dad and maybe a dog, but it wasn't like he had a choice in the matter. He ended up where he ended up, and this was where he was until someone decided he was worth taking. According to Rebecca that would never happen,but Ender didn't hold her opinion in high regard.

Ender had memories of his biological parents. One thing he knew, and held onto with absolute certainty was that they had loved him. He still remembers his mother's tears the last time he saw her. She had hugged him and kissed him, and told him goodbye. It's a little fuzzy after that, but Ender also remembers wandering the streets cold and hungry until some people found him and took him to a police station. Ender's decided he just doesn't want to remember the details, or maybe he isn't ready yet.

He hadn't spoken any English, which was definitely confusing, because at the time, all Ender knew was he didn't understand what people were saying to him, and they didn't understand him. He'd been able to speak in complete sentences since he was a year, so everyone's garbled words was frightening. No one every figured out what language he spoke, but he picked up English incredibly quickly so it wasn't problem. But somehow his old language patterns were set and his English developed with an accent. Now everyone always wanted to know what part of England he moved to America from.

"Rebecca was looking for you." Emily had finally looked up from her book to delivery the message.

Ender just made a face and shrugged.

"She was yelling your name earlier. Don't know what for but when you didn't appear she threw a pan across the kitchen." All the foster kids had learned to stay out of Rebecca's way when she was angry. The trick was to not be the one who caused the anger. She didn't hit them, but she could be terrifying when she was mad, and had her own methods of punishment that weren't fun.

With a sigh Ender dumped his bag on his bunk and headed for the door. "Wish me luck?"

"I think you already used that up a long time ago," was Emily's response.

* * *

Rebecca was in the kitchen slicing apples. If there was one thing she enforced it was good nutrition. Sugar was not tolerated, at least not for the foster kids. Ender could remember when Jackson took a cookie from the stash Rebecca kept for herself and the 'biological' kids. Rebecca took him to the toilet and made him throw it back up again.

Edging into the kitchen Ender cleared his throat to make his presence known. Rebecca glanced up and gave a scoff of disgust.

"Where were you," she snapped.

Ender just shrugged. He'd learned the less information you gave the less it could be used against you in the future.

"Franklin's coming by later, you need to be ready."

Ender bit his lip. Franklin was Rebecca's brother and a jerk.

"Did you learn the diagrams?" The knife kept slicing the apples with more force than was probably necessary.

A nod.

"Where'd you go earlier?" The older woman looked up from the cutting board, a maniacal glint in her eyes.

His fingers twitched and Ender fought the reaction to stick his thumb in his mouth. Rebecca called him a baby whenever he did it, and liked to put bad tasting stuff on his thumb as a deterrent. Ender hadn't sucked his thumb when he was first found, but around the time of his third foster placement. He didn't always realise he was doing it, but the action usually calmed him down which was probably why he couldn't break the habit. Agent Burke hadn't seemed to care, but Agent Burke was a lot nicer than Rebecca.

Rebecca was waiting for an answer. Ender really didn't want to give her one, but knew she wouldn't give up unless she was satisfied. "The park." It was the truth, even if was just part of it, since he'd cut through the park on the way to the bus stop from the Burkes.

Rebecca regarded him with narrowed eyes. "Come here."

Ender edged forward.

"Closer."

With a deep breath Ender took a larger step, which took him up to the counter. In a swift movement Rebecca grabbed his wrist and pulled it onto the counter slamming her knife down onto the cutting board, the tip a couple inches from stabbing him.

It took everything Ender had not to flinch, but he'd learned along time ago it was better not to show fear.

"You mess this up, and there will be a whole lot of people who aren't very happy. Do you really want everyone mad at you, because I think you remember what happened last time?"

Ender shook his head.

At her raised eyebrow he finally replied. "I won't disappoint you."

The woman's whole demeanour suddenly changed and a smile appeared on her face.

"I know you won't." She put the knife down and dropped down to Ender's level taking him by the shoulders. "You know I just want what's best for you, right?"

Ender didn't move but kept his eyes glued to her face. It was a rhetorical question. In Rebecca's mind the answer was yes.

Rebecca looked almost sad for a moment. She reached up and smoothed his hair then took his face in her hands. "We're not going to have any more problems like before are we Timmy?"

The sudden mood changes always freaked Ender out, because she was so unpredictable. He had a brief flashback to Mrs. Burke and wondered how long he would have had to stay before she became angry and yelled or through something at him. Ender knew not all females were like Rebecca, but after living with her for over a year, it was hard to imagine living with someone who didn't change moods on a dime.

Ender just shook his head anxious to keep her in a good mood for everyone's sake more than even his own. Rebecca smiled again tickling his ribs for a moment causing Ender to giggle and squirm away from the sensation. She was always doing this, angry one moment and affectionate the next. It was really confusing. After a second Rebecca stopped and pulled him into a hug. As Ender hugged her back he desperately wished she meant it as more than way to control.

* * *

**A/N**: I hope no one was too freaked out by Mrs. Martin. I was a little writing this, because she is such a disturbing character. I wrote her based on research about how abusers often use kindness coupled with abusive behaviour to manipulate their victims, but I tried to keep it as tame as possible.


	11. To Believe One's Dreams

**A/N**: Welcome back readers. Glad you are sticking with this story even after my completely disturbing last chapter. Some psychological references related to trauma in this chapter and I am skirting with a crossover/AU in one scene because its a fun reference, but nothing too scary.

Not 100% happy with what I wrote so I'll probably edit later. I'm worried the dialogue might be a little confusing, but I guess you just have to read and decide for yourselves. This is sort of a filler chapter. Things are starting to wind down to the end but I want to make sure the characters are sufficiently developed. Planning plenty of action and hurt/comfort for the finale so if anyone wants something added speak now and I will try to work it in.

* * *

**To Believe One's Dreams Is To Spend All One's Life Asleep**

Neal was livid when he found out Peter didn't get his hat back. After listening to a lengthy and dramatic speech about how a heinous crime committed against humanity Peter told Neal his decision was for the greater good and sent him back to his desk to continue working on the mystery of the origami figures.

They now had two figures to go on, the little safe with ten thousand dollars in monopoly money, and the guy holding the ball above his head. Peter did wonder if the next theft was related to basketball in some way but since the season ended a couple weeks ago that idea seemed less likely.

Peter had gleaned one piece of information from Ender's visit. Well, he had gained a lot of insight into this kid starting with the fact that he was pretty messed up. Peter didn't spend a lot of time around kids, but knew if a six year old was stressed enough to revert to a toddler like behaviour by curling up in a ball and sucking his thumb there was something more going on.

As always, when he wasn't sure about something Peter did research. In this case he had El call her dad. Dr Mitchell had been nice enough to help, anything for his little girl. The psychiatrist indicated that without meeting the kid it was hard to make an official diagnosis, but said foster children often had difficulty trusting or attaching to adult figures, especially if they had been abandoned in the past. Based on Ender's history of being left to fend for himself at age three, and then moving foster homes every few months over the next couple years, the doctor said the behaviour Mrs. Martin described sounded pretty accurate.

Peter had quickly declined Dr. Mitchell's offer to fly in and examine Ender saying since the FBI hadn't detained the child they couldn't force a psych evaluation.

Along with solidifying the fact that he was dealing with a pretty traumatised child Peter was now certain someone else was involved with this kid in the robberies. When Ender had asked Peter about catching the museum robbers he had spoken about them in plural form. Years of questioning witnesses had taught Peter to pick up on verbal cues suspects gave different from the response of a person not involved would normally have. Since the papers all suggested the thief as a single person, it was more likely that only someone involved in the robberies would know about the existence of more than one thief.

Now Peter only had to figure out who as using the kid. The Martins annoyed him, but they came up clean in the background investigation, making Peter wondered if there was anyone else from a previous foster home whom Ender would feel an obligation to.

He was having Jones and Diana gather information on the previous four foster homes and run background checks on all the adults in each.

There were only a few days left before the next theft and Peter wanted this who case to be over before anything else went missing.

The agent was just typing up a request for some equipment when he glanced up to see someone he would not expected walking into the White Collar bullpen.

Or may be he should have expected her sooner. Sarah Ellis came through the door and sashayed over to Neal's desk in her four-inch Louboutin heels. She must have said his name because Neal jerked up in surprise then recovered and rose to his feet to greet her. Peter couldn't hear their exchange, but a moment later Neal was leading her up the stairs to his office.

Clearly over his earlier surprise Neal grinned as he walked back in the office. "Look whose here Peter."

Expecting this had something to do with the recent robberies, Peter rose to his feet and offered her his hand.

"Sarah. I'd ask why you're here, but if I remember correctly Sterling and Bosh insures Starry Night."

Sarah gave a coy smile. "Actually we insure several of the pieces taken, but Starry Night was the last straw."

The insurance investigator held up a copy of the New York Times bold headlines across the top reading, "Phantom Strikes Again, Museum Guards Made Fools Of By Toy."

"It wasn't the FBI chasing around a remote controlled car, while the painting went missing," Peter pointed out.

"My bosses sent me here to tell you they want their paintings back."

"We're doing everything we can to recover the missing artwork." Peter told her. "You of all people should know investigations take time."

"I heard a rumour you had a suspect in custody."

Peter did not need any information about the kid leaving the office. It wasn't that he thought Sarah would deliberately try to mess up their operation, but as an insurance investigator her first duty was to the recovery of her art. He couldn't be sure she wouldn't spook these guys if she started snooping around.

"We've questioned some people but they all had alibis, we're checking into other leads though."

Sarah looked like she didn't quite believe him, but didn't press for more information.

"I think they're hoping because of our past dealings that I might be able to get them some good news. With the favour you owe me one and for those photos." Her mouth quirked into a bit of a smile.

Peter fought to keep the colour off his face and shot Neal a quick glare before the man could add in his two cents. "As soon as I know something, you'll be my first call Ms. Ellis."

She nodded at him but continued. "My boss seems particularly interested in this case," her voice radiated confusion, as if this seemed unusual. "He tried not to let it show, but I could tell at the meeting. It's really unusual for him to take so much interest in our investigations. Usually he's off doing his own thing."

"You can reassure Mr. Bosh we're going to catch this guy." Peter told her anxious for the conversation to end. Sarah was nice, but he was still getting over feeling awkward around her after the Delancy case.

"Actually I was referring to Mr. Sterling," she told him.

"Oh," was all Peter could think to say in response. "Well you can pass the message on to Mr. Sterling then."

"I'll do that." Sarah glanced down and picked up her purse that she had set on Peter's desk. "He did want me to tell you something. He pulled me aside after the meeting and said I should pass the message on to both of you," she gestured to Peter and Neal.

That caught Peter by surprise. "What's the message?"

"He said to tell you 'Get this guy, but if not', whatever that means."

Peter wasn't sure exactly why the message was worded that way but it sounded like some rich CEO was getting pissy with them. "Tell Mr. Sterling the FBI does not respond to threats. If he has any concerns he can contact us."

"Look I'm just passing on the message." Sarah tried to smooth things over. "If we don't get the artwork back Sterling and Bosh will have to pay over 1.5 million. Nobody wants to do that."

"We'll get your art back," Peter repeated his tone making it clear the conversation was over. The investigator nodded and turned back towards the door. She was almost to the stairs when Neal called after her.

"Sarah." She turned back around expectantly.

"Tell Mr. Sterling we won't let him down." Neal kept a level gaze. Sarah looked like she expected him to say more, may be something to her directly but Neal didn't.

"I will," she finally responded and left.

Neal turned to face Peter and found the agent staring at him slacked jawed. "We won't let him down," Peter repeated in disbelief. "Seriously Neal. Have you lost your damn mind?"

"I just think if we do this right he may do us a favour in the future." Neal defended with an innocent look.

"Did you steal something from this guy?" Peter asked suddenly suspicious of Neal's face. Neal usually had that look when he wanted Peter to focus on what he was saying and not on what he might have done.

"Nothing that isn't not covered by the statute of limitations." Neal responded.

The agent rolled his eyes at the double negative. "Just find out where this kid is going next. I have Jones and Diana looking for anyone with a criminal background who might know him."

"When did we suddenly conclude this kid is 100% involved," Neal asked.

"When he stole from you." Peter told him rather smugly.

* * *

Neal walked down the streets towards the small park. Mozzie had been doing some surveillance on the Martins, and told him Ender usually hung out at the park close to the Martins' townhouse from one to three in the afternoon. Neal asked why the kids weren't in school, but Mozzie said his research revealed Mrs. Martin home schooled the kids since she worked out of the house.

Mozzie's background check on the Martin's hadn't revealed much either. Neal got to read some of the complaints made by previous foster children, and while he didn't like what he saw, none of the other kids in the home had ever substantiated the claims. At his insistence Mozzie was now digging into other family members and acquaintances, but Neal didn't know if it would do any good if the kids refused to talk.

Neal understood the importance of keeping secrets. It was how he stayed so good at his job. But he couldn't understand why these kids would keep secrets about abuse. May be he was wrong and Mrs. Martin was just annoying. Neal didn't want his own past to make him read too much into the situation. Ender stayed, so despite the woman's obnoxious voice maybe she wasn't completely evil.

Ender was sitting on one of the swings, by himself, gently flying back and forth. After pumping with his legs for a minute, he dropped his head back and leaned backwards just enjoying the motion, wind tossing his hair around.

Neal sat down in the swing next to him and waited for the kid to realise he was there and acknowledge his presence.

Slowly the kid dragged his feet on the woodchips below stopping the motion of the swing.

"What are you doing here?" Ender finally asked as his swing came to a stop.

"You have my hat." Neal told him.

Ender didn't say anything for a moment. "You gave it to me," he finally replied.

"I think that's up to interpretation." Neal responded.

The kid kicked his feet at the wood chips. He could barely reach the ground with the exception of the tips of his toes. "I'm not giving it back."

"I know."

Ender bit at his lower lip. He felt cornered. He hated the feeling. "Did Agent Burke send you?"

Neal shook his head. "I wanted to talk to you myself."

"Here to tell help me see the error of my ways."

Neal laughed and shook his head again. "I'm here to tell you, you have a choice."

The kid just scoffed at that. "I haven't had a choice in a long time."

"Why not?" Neal asked trying to meet the kid's eyes. Ender just kept staring at the ground and kicking his toes.

"Because no one cares." The kid's hand twitched for a moment and then he stuck his right thumb into his mouth to suck on it. Neal looked at him a moment, astonished by the behaviour. Ender seemed content to suck his thumb for a minute before he glanced up and seemed to realise what he was doing. Cheeks colouring he pulled his thumb out and grabbed the swing chain again.

"I care." Neal told him after a moment. "Agent Burke cares."

"It's his job to care." The conversation was clearly starting to annoy the kid because his toes began kicking more forcefully at the ground.

"You can trust him." Neal understood the need to be suspicious, especially of those in authority. It was an important skill for survival. But Neal had learned that sometimes it was okay to trust other people.

"I don't expect you to understand," Ender spit out rather bitterly.

Now it was Neal's turn to feel frustrated. "Why not? I'm probably the only person in your life who does understand."

Ender paused for a moment. His little hands gripped the swing chains so hard his knuckles were turning white clearly fighting the urge to put his thumb back in his mouth. "I haven't done anything wrong," he finally said, changing the subject. The kid didn't want a fight; he was too drained from the past few days.

"I know." Neal replied. He was about to say something else when Ender looked at his watch.

"I have homework to do," the kid told him. "Rebecca doesn't like us to be late. See you round?"

Neal nodded. "You can count on it."

Ender gave him a smile. He started to walk away then looked back. "Sky's getting darker," he said and at Neal's nod continued. "Do you ever wonder if the sky gets heavy enough, will it crush the earth, if no one's there to stop it?" Then he headed out the park and out of sight.


	12. A Diamond With Flaws

**WARNING**: More mentions of child psychological and emotional abuse, and hints of a child's death. Nothing graphic, and much is mentioned in passing, but if two chapters ago was difficult for you to read you may want to skip this one as well.

* * *

**A Diamond With A Flaw Is Worth More Than A Pebble Without Imperfections**

Ender could hear screaming, coming from downstairs, when he climbed through the bedroom window. The bedroom was empty which meant everyone was doing 'homework'. Ender flinched as the screams continued.

Ender was always surprised the cops weren't showing up every other day with the constant noise racket being made. It was hard to hear exactly what Rebecca was saying, but from the sudden shattering sound of glass, it sounded like she was throwing dishes.

Knowing he couldn't avoid the inevitable the kid slowly crept down the stairs to assess the damage.

"You'll do it till you get it right. When I say twenty I mean twenty." Rebecca bellowed. Ender peaked around the corner and saw Jamie cowering against the kitchen island, evidence of a broken glass askew across the floor.

"My hands hurt." Tears were dripping down the boy's face. The other foster children were nowhere to be seen.

"It's going to hurt a lot more if you don't do it again." The woman hissed.

Jamie had his hands cradled against his chest. Both were wrapped in a piece of gauze around the palm. "I can't do anymore." He looked around desperately, like a cornered animal.

Ender might be young, but he was very intelligent for his age and he'd long ago pegged Rebecca as a sociopath. She didn't care about any of the foster kids, except when it meant she had something to gain. Then in an instant, she was kind and compassionate; cuddling and hugging desperate children starved for love, affection and approval they never received from their biological parents.

It was one thing to know this mentally, but when you lived it day in and day out for over a year put a huge strain on anyone. Eventually you accept the way things are because if not, you receive nothing good from the other person, and something is better than nothing.

Rebecca regarded Jamie for a moment with narrowed eyes. Then suddenly she changed tactics and gave a dramatic sigh.

Her voice was full of hurt and betrayal. "Harold and I feed you kids, we clothe you, take you to the doctors when you're sick, make sure you have a bed to sleep in. We even make sure you have good things like toys to play with, and presents for Christmas and your birthdays."

She gave him a look of deep disappointment, shaking her head sadly. "I just don't understand why you can't do these simple little things for me. It makes me so sad that you don't love me the way I love you."

Jamie was now shaking with sobs so Ender took that as his cue to enter the room. Rebecca loved her mind games. They were probably worse than being slapped.

Ender made sure he made enough noise to make Rebecca aware of his presence when he came in. She whipped her head around at the scuffle of his feet. "Where have you been?" She snapped, temporarily distracted from the other boy in the room.

"Rehearsing," Ender forced himself to make eye contact. "At the park."

Rebecca kept searching his face for any sign of a lie. She was good at spotting lies, but Ender was better. The trick to being a convincing liar was two fold. First you had to build the lie from some piece of truth. Second, you had to believe the lie. If you believed it was true the other person would too. Ender wasn't sure how he knew this but it worked.

"I'm almost ready for Thursday," he told her, doing his best to be placating. It was such a difficult job for a six year old, but someone had to be. "I know the entrance and exit points. We just have to make sure we don't trigger the alarms when we come back out with all the extra weight."

Rebecca motioned for him to come over, with her index finger. She dropped down to her knees and rested her hands on both Ender's shoulders.

"We can't have any problems." She whispered in a soothing voice. "You have to be perfect. You can do that, can't you?"

Ender nodded his agreement. "I'm so proud of how hard you've worked," she told him. "You've done everything I've asked."

As much as he knew she was crazy, Ender wanted to believe she loved him, and he wanted to love her back. Wasn't that what any child wanted? After a moment he threw his arms around her neck and hugged her, telling himself it was okay to believe the lie just this once. Or may be if he really was good enough she would actually love him like she loved her real kids.

Rebecca actually hugged him back, resting her cheek on the crown of his head and rocking a little. Then she reached her hand out to Jamie, but the other boy flinched and jerked back.

She gently tsked, but pulled her hand away. "You know I would never to hurt you, right?" Her voice was deceptively kind. "I yelled because you weren't doing you best. If you listen to me, and always do exactly what I say I won't need to do that."

Neither kid said anything so Rebecca took it as her cue to continue, her grip her Ender's shoulders tightening. "You do this right and we'll have a party with pizza and ice cream afterwards. I'll even take you to the toy store and you can pick out anything you want. How does that sound?" Her face was hopeful.

When both boys quickly nodded, Rebecca smiled. "Let's go back downstairs and practice. There isn't a lot of time left, and you need to make me proud."

* * *

The basement was the schoolroom, as Rebecca called it. The entire floor had been converted with a home gym to one side and desks, blackboards and computers for the kids to "learn" on the other. Currently, tacked to the walls, were schematics and diagrams of a New York style skyscraper. Other pictures of complicated electronics also hung there.

Emily and Indigo were at a table checking over some lengths of rope, harnesses, carabineers and other equipment. Indigo was nine, and small for her age. She had jet-black hair, often done up into several braids. Her fingers moved up and down the rope feeling for imperfections and weaknesses.

In the corner Jackson was doing push-ups. He was the oldest at almost eleven and had been with the Martin's the longest. Since he was four. Every once in a while he'd challenge Rebecca a bit just to see what would happen, but mostly he did whatever he was told.

Jamie was nine, like Indigo. He'd been placed with the Martin's a little before Ender. Like the rest of the foster kids he'd learned very early on not to cross Rebecca. Knowing there was no choice he walked back to the pull-up bar, flinching when his raw hands gripped the cool metal.

Ender knew this entire mess began with him, which was one of the reason's he hadn't run away and ever looked back.

Before he was even placed with the Martin's he had learned to take things that didn't belong to him. It started in his second foster home with sneaking food. Sometimes the other kids would take his because he was so little. Desperate for food, he learned to sneak stuff from the fridge late at night, or even pocket food at the store during shopping trips.

By his fourth foster home he could take a person's wallet and put it back without the person ever being the wiser.

The first time Rebecca caught him he thought she'd be angry enough to call to social services. If her world wasn't perfect, she got upset. In fact, he'd been sloppy enough to let her catch him. Pissing off Rebecca was the best way to get out of that house. But instead of getting rid of him, like the last three homes had, she decided to "cash in on her investment."

Her half brother Franklin consulted for a couple security companies. He also helped handled the instillation of several systems for local businesses and organisations included the MET. He provided the security information. Harold Martin worked in construction and had access to lots of detailed building plans. And who would suspect a group of kids would have the know how to break into buildings and rob them.

Ever since Rebecca had developed this scheme with her husband and brother it had been a year of non-stop 'training' to get ready for these robberies. She pulled the kids out of the regular school saying it was to tailor the education to each child's needs. Rock climbing, gymnastics and martial arts classes made Rebecca appear the perfect foster mother, but it was really to provide skills necessary to get in and out of buildings undetected.

When Rebecca first told him what he was going to do for her, Ender told her no. He may steal a few bucks here and there but that was to ensure he had money in case he ever needed to run away. Robbing a building was wrong, completely and totally wrong.

This was Ender's first taste of how vindictive Rebecca really was. She simply called a family meeting and told all the foster kids Ender was doing something that hurt the family and none of them would eat until Ender followed the rules.

Two days later, hungry, bruised and with a broken arm from the other children, Ender finally agreed. Besides, if he didn't do this who knows what else Rebecca might do?

When he first got there Jackson told him about another boy who lived there, Erik. Rebecca was fond of saying Erik ran away, but Jackson confided that Erik said no to her one too many times. Apparently when the other kids went to bed, she kept him up to yell some more. The next day Rebecca called Erik's social worker to say he ran away, but Jackson said Erik wasn't the type to do that. No one knew exactly what happened, but none of the kids really wanted the truth.

So this was now their life. Memorising security systems, opening locks, and physical training. Ender wouldn't have minded it, if Rebecca was truly kind. Getting into a museum was like solving a puzzle and Ender liked puzzles. He just didn't like helping Rebecca.

Ender did most of the B&E and got the art himself. The other kids usually waited at the exit points to get things out of the museums and back to the Martins. Sometimes Ender wondered who he was in a past life that made it so good at this. Not that it mattered, as long as Rebecca didn't hurt the rest of the kids.

For a while Ender didn't understand why Rebecca hadn't cared which art was stolen. Then he realised this was just practice for the robbery that would make the Martin's rich. The final score.

And it was the perfect crime. Even if they got caught no one would think a child was capable of pulling this off, as Ender had learned after meeting up with the FBI. The agents hadn't thought twice about handing him back over to the Martins because he was just a little boy.

Ender wanted to tell them. The only thing that stopped him was Rebecca's threats. Right before the first job she told him if he was ever caught to not say a word. If he did she would make sure all the kids paid for his mistakes.

In the world of us or them with the adults, the other kids were his only friends. Ender didn't want to lose the only people who might care if something happened to him. So instead he left the origami. It was a message, a cry for help. Before the first robbery, Ender had read an article mentioning Agent Burke and Neal. The author said they caught the impossible criminals, the ones no one else could. Surely people like that could figure out his message.

And they had or they wouldn't have shown up at the Frick or the MOMA. Now Ender just needed them one more time. He didn't even care if they dragged him away to jail if he got away from Rebecca. He'd left them three clues this time, more than enough. They would be there, or Ender didn't know what he'd do. He had a feeling once he outlived his usefulness Rebecca might decided he needed to run away too.

* * *

**A/N**: I wanted to use this chapter to explain psychologically why none of the kids have told, and why they would agree to help someone who treats them like this. Sadly there are people like Rebecca in this world who hurt both children and adults, although I by no means think she typifies the average person or foster mother. Not to give away too many spoilers, but she will be punished for her crimes.

Some creative license on whether kids this age could pull off a robbery, but I think it's plausible. Remaining chapters will probably be as intense as this one so be warned if you want to continue reading. I still don't think this story needs an M rating, but if someone has concerns let me know.


	13. Be Not Afraid of Going Slowly

Phew… Three chapters in three days. I've had all these ideas running through my head and knew if I didn't get them written I'd forget.

**WARNING**: See note at bottom, before reading, if you have concerns or the last chapter bothered you. No high speed car chases, but this chapter should be more action packed.

* * *

**Be Not Afraid of Going Slowly, Be Only Afraid of Standing Still**

Neal just sat at his desk there staring at the little pieces of origami. Somewhere in them was the clue to the next heist but all he currently saw was a box of money and a little man holding a ball. Neal had wondered if the money was meant to represent the value of the next piece. Ten, one hundred dollar bills equalled a thousand dollars and Ender said to square that, which equalled a million. But Neal couldn't think of any artwork worth a million dollars involving a guy and a ball. A statue maybe, but it had to be something a child could lift.

They were running out of time, and no one knew how many chances were left before the thefts stopped, stopping the clues with them. It was Thursday morning and Neal kept going over every possible piece of artwork in New York City. With the last two heists he could see a specific link between the origami and the artwork, but now the clues made no sense.

Feeling cross eyed from staring for so long Neal got up to go ask Peter if he could get a coffee. Something from the little coffee shop across the street instead of the sludge churned out by the machine in the office.

He knocked on the door and Peter called for him to enter. "I need a cup of coffee, or I'm going to crash," Neal said by way of greeting.

The agent raised his eyebrows asking the silent question of why Neal couldn't just walk his lazy butt over to the coffee machine.

"From Delemarks," Neal told him. "Something I can stomach without throwing it back up again as soon as I swallow."

Normally Peter would make some sarcastic comment about Neal's finicky palette, but today was stressful enough was it was.

So Peter carefully considered the request and Neal did his best to appear pathetic without looking overly so. It was a careful mix the conman had spent years perfecting, until it was rare anyone told him no.

"I'm putting agents on the Martin's home," Peter suddenly said changing the subject. "Not so much surveillance that we spook the kid, but if he leaves, we'll be able to follow him. I just wish we knew who was really behind this. Arresting only that kid is not going to make me feel good."

Neal nodded his agreement, anxious to hear an answer to his own question. He was about to ask again when Peter finally relented. "Sugar and cream, you're buying."

That was more like it. Neal gave a charming grin. "I'll be right back."

Ten minutes later, with two cups in a drink holder, Neal was heading back across the street when a voice called out behind him. "Coffee, the favourite drink of the civilised world."

"Nice to know Thomas Jefferson understood the importance of the finer things in life," Neal responded and turned to see Mozzie standing behind him. "You could have just called Moz. It's not like you to publicly appear at the mouth of hell." He gestured towards the FBI building.

"This information was too important to deliver over the phone," Mozzie explained, though his eyes shifted over to the building warily. He reached for one of the cups, but Neal slapped his hand away. "Peter will arrest you if you even think about touching his coffee."

Mozzie looked like he was considered this choice. "Can I at least spit in it?"

"What?" Neal looked disgusted. "No, are you out of your mind. May be if it was Agent Ruiz's coffee but not Peters."

The other man looked thoughtful again but Neal was more interested in finding out why Mozzie tracked him down for a meeting outside FBI headquarters.

"Why are you here Moz?"

Mozzie had a dreamy look on his face, apparently lost in his fantasies about spiking the FBI's coffee supply before he suddenly snapped back to reality.

"I found out some more information on the Martins that you and the Suit should find very interesting."

"And," Neal asked.

"Mrs. Martin has a half-brother, Franklin Butler. Same father but different mothers. I didn't catch it in the initial background check because the Franklin's mother had an affair with Rebecca's father, and the father didn't want his name on the birth certificate. That's why it took so long to discover him as a relative."

"Infidelity isn't a crime Mozzie." Neal told him.

"But it would look awfully suspicious if one of your relatives consulted for the two companies that handled security for the four museums robbed these past few weeks. A museum where one of your foster kids was also found the night of a theft." Mozzie explained his voice punctuated the important points.

Neal grabbed the paper Mozzie was holding. "What?"

"Franklin's done work for both Steelman Securities, and Wright Inc. He didn't help install any of the systems at the museums hit, but he worked on the installation of several other very similar systems for different companies. He could probably teach a gifted child how to break in without getting caught."

"Does he have contact with the Martin family?" That was a crucial link to this.

Mozzie handed him a photograph of a man coming out of the Martin's home. "He's there twice a week like clockwork. Every Saturday and Wednesday."

For a moment Neal just stood there staring at the piece of paper, his brain whirring from the information Mozzie just provided.

A second later he shoved the coffee holder at Mozzie and dashed away, papers in his hand. "Thanks Moz."

Mozzie looked at the coffee then at Neal's retreating back. "What do I do with two coffees?"

"Find a date," Neal called before disappearing back into FBI headquarters.

* * *

Neal shoved passed several agents and took the stairs two at a time. He burst into Peter's office stopping at the foot of the agent's desk to catch his breath.

"What the hell Neal?" Peter looked up. "What took you so long and where's my coffee?"

Neal took a couple deep breaths, waving his hand to signal that shouldn't matter. "I just spoke with Mozzie," he gasped out after a moment. "He found a link between the Martin's and the robberies."

Peter wanted to give Neal a chance to catch his breath, but he also wanted to know what was going on.

Neal managed to straighten and slap the paperwork down on the desk. "Rebecca has a half brother, Franklin Butler. He consults for the companies that handled security for all the museums being robbed. He's a regular at the Martin house, every Wednesday, the day before the robberies, and every Saturday."

Peter picked up the papers and photograph, studied them for a moment, then walked over to his office door. "Diana," he shouted before turning back to Neal. "If this is right, we may not be able to arrest them just yet, but we can get a search warrant for the house."

A moment later Diana appeared at the door. "Franklin Butler. He's apparently Rebecca Martin's half brother and a consulted for Steelman Securities and Wright Inc the companies' responsible museum security of all the places robbed. Get me hard evidence they're related and then get me search warrants for their homes and businesses. We might even have enough to get the kids removed." Peter felt bad for snapping at her, but he knew Diana was used to his moods.

To her credit the female agent didn't even bat an eye. Just replied with, "On it boss," and walked back out the door.

* * *

It was a long wait to verify Mozzie's information. At least that what it felt like for Neal as he kept staring at the clock watching every second tick by. Nothing seemed to help ease the tension and he had begun to fall back into a nervous habit of jiggling his leg up and down, something he rarely did anymore. The tension in this case was so high, and Neal didn't doubt five kids' safety hung in the balance.

About an hour later Diana came back in, a stack of papers in her hand. She walked up to Peter, and held them out. "Warrants for the Martin's home, Mr. Martin's office and Franklin Butler's home and place of employment."

Peter snatched them out of his hand and began barking orders at everyone. The entire bullpen became a flurry of activity as agents began gathering up their things. Each person was listening for the location they were supposed to go to and begin the search.

They had done this too many times for there to be real chaos even though that's what it must have appeared like to the casual observer. Each agent knew where he was going, whom he was with, and who was in charge of his individual team.

Form here everyone would get in their vehicles and drive to their own location, pulling the place apart until they found what they were looking for.

As they began heading towards the elevators Diana touched Neal's arm. "It looks like your hat will be rescued after all. Caffrey"

* * *

The drive to the Martin's house felt like an eternity was well. Peter had opted to go in with their sirens off since he didn't want to spook anyone. However their vehicles pulled in blocking off the street and Peter jumped out, walking head up and shoulders back, to the front door. Neal was familiar with the pose. Peter rarely flaunted his authority but when he did, it was because he wanted everyone to know he commanded the respect of those around him.

Pounding on the door with his fist, the agent ensured he couldn't be ignored.

"Mr. and Mrs. Martin? This is Peter Burke with the FBI, we have a warrant to search the house." Peter put authority into his voice. Unfortunately it didn't do any good because there was no response. Peter tried again, pounding harder. The door vibrated beneath his hand.

"We have a warrant, to search your home, open up," he shouted again.

There was nothing but the sound of the agents in the yard breathing, and adjusting their weapons. Peter was just debating if he could justify having the tactical team kick the door down, or if he should try knocking one more time when a voice to his left caught his attention.

"Excuse me." Everyone turned to see an elderly woman, probably in her early eighties, holding a little golden Pomeranian. "Are you looking for the Martins?" She asked in a sweet, puzzled sort of way.

"Yes." Peter began walking over to the woman. "Have you seen them? I really need to speak with Mrs. Martin and her husband.

"Rebecca left a few hours ago, with the all kids." The woman said. "That woman is always on the go, taking those children to one activity or another at all hours of the day and night. I'm Mrs. Ferris by the way." She held out a wrinkly, veined hand to Peter.

As much as Peter tried to be pleasant and courteous with everyone, this was not the time. He did however attempt to remain cordial and gave a faint smile while he took the old woman's hand. "Do you know where she went?" He asked, urgency evident in his voice.

"Goodness no?" Mrs Ferris laughed. "Like I said she's always taking one of those kids somewhere. I don't know how she does it, looking after seven kids and five of them not even her own. That woman has a heart of gold if you ask me." She readjusted her dog and looked around.

"Are you the police, did something happen?" She seemed bewildered by the FBI agents all standing around in official jackets and flak vests.

"We're actually the FBI ma'am." Peter held out his badge for her to see. "Have you known the Martin's long?"

"Oh yes," the elderly woman told him. "I moved here with my husband before Rebecca was even born. She grew up in that house, you know. Got it from her parents when they had to move to a care home. Her mother just wasn't well. Sweet woman, Jane. I miss her."

Peter really did not need the Martin's entire family history but he tried to remain civil towards a person who might be able to give some useful information. "Ever notice anything strange going on in the home? Was she ever abusive of the kids?"

Mrs. Ferris gave Peter a bewildered look. "Rebecca? No! What makes you think that? She loves those kids. Isn't anything she wouldn't do for them. I even remember, when the family cat died she and her husband buried it late at night in the backyard so none of the kids would be upset seeing it dead."

"What? When?" Peter long ago learned if something sounded suspicious, it usually was.

"Well," Mrs. Ferris looked down pondering her answer. "It was about a year and a half ago now. I remember because we had all that rain and Goldilocks, she held up her dog, kept digging holes in the backyard whenever I let her out. She wanted to go outside late at night, and I was worried she'd get herself dirty again but she kept crying and I didn't want her to have an accident so I let her outside." The elderly woman paused.

"Rebecca and Harold were out back digging a hole and they were being really quiet. Trying not to make a lot of noise, but I could hear the sounds of the shovel going into the dirt. I called over to them to ask if things were all right and Rebecca told me they had just found one of the cats dead. She said the kids would be so upset, so they were burying it before anyone saw, since she didn't want the kids to be sad. It was cold so I called for Goldie and we went back inside. I remember seeing her come home with a new kitten the following day."

Burying cats in the dead of night sounded a bit absurd and Peter had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he thought back over the information compiled on the Martins. "Diana," he tried to keep his voice down. "Didn't the Martin's have that foster child who ran away around 18 months ago?"

She nodded, also keeping her voice low; aware Mrs. Ferris was still listening. "Erik Thomkins. He was eleven."

Turning back to Mrs. Ferris Peter forced his voice to stay calm. "Where exactly were they digging?"

"Close to the tree with the tire swing," she stated. "Is everything okay?" She asked again.

Peter didn't even bother being cordial this time. He walked away. "Get forensics in here. I want ground penetrating radar out back to find what the Martins buried."

At this point Peter didn't care if he only found a dead cat. He rather explain that in his report than the alternative.

* * *

While waiting for the equipment to arrive Peter had his team begin searching the Martin's house and he checked in with the teams at the other locations. So far no one had uncovered the smoking gun, but Peter was still hopeful.

"Agent Burke you're going to want to see this." One of the newer agents had walked over. He directed Peter into the house with Neal right on the agent's heels.

The young agent led them down to the basement filled with gym equipment, and schematics covering the walls. Along with the diagrams were 'motivational' posters with phrases like; "Obstacles are challenges for winners and excuses for losers so don't be a loser," "Play to win because almost doesn't cut it, " and "Winning isn't everything, it's the only thing."

Neal walked over to one of the schematics. "There are the building plans for the Frick, Peter," Neal told him. He glanced at the one next to. "And that one is for the MOMA."

"Any of the stolen artwork in here?"

The agent shook his head. We haven't found anything yet, but we found blood on the pull-up bar. Like someone held it until his palms began to bleed and then kept going. My sisters a gymnast and I saw this at the gym where she trained."

"Keep looking," Peter snapped. "Get me something I can use to arrest these people."

Another glance around the room and Peter felt sick to his stomach.

"Boss." Peter looked up and saw Diana at the top of the stairs. "GPR is here, they're setting up out back.

The agent took the stairs two at a time with Neal once again right behind him.

Out back the crime scene techs were setting up the GPR machine at the location Mrs. Ferris had indicated. The GPR sent electromagnetic waves into the ground, and the time it took for the wave to bounce back helped make a picture of whatever was in the ground.

"Give us a moment, and well have something for you Agent Burke," one of the techs told him.

A couple minutes later they were rolling the GPR across the small section of grass. Everyone stand around held their breath not knowing if they wanted the machine to find something or not.

Finally the tech stopped the machine. "Got something here around six to eight feet down."

"Is it a body?" Peter asked.

"The equipment isn't able to tell us. All we know is there's something down there. Now we have to dig."

Every second passing without locating the Martins felt like a moment wasted, but this had to be done and there was no sign of them at anyone's house of office. Since no one was quite sure where the next robbery would be everything depending on finding something at one of these locations.

The techs began to dig down, quickly at first and the more carefully as they came closer to the objects location. "Got a bag of some kind," one of them said.

A little more careful removal of dirt and they were lifting out a canvas bag. One of the techs bent down to undo the zipper than stopped. He looked up, his face pale. "I've got the bones of a hand," he stated. "Looks to small to be an adults."

A moment later they undid the rest of the bag. Inside was a small skeleton, apparently curled on its side so the body would fit in the bag.

Behind him Peter heard retching noises and looked over to see one of the younger agents throwing up. He didn't blame the guy. He felt like doing exactly the same thing.

"Can you tell how he died," Peter asked.

The tech sadly shook his head. "Not until we can better examine the bones. We'll finish up here and get everything back to the lab. This will be our top priority."

Peter nodded doing everything he could to hold in his rage. Suddenly he turned and kicked at a branch lying in his way. "Dammit," he shouted. The agents around him just stood there staring. No one knew what to say.

A moment later the agent composed himself. "Give me something Neal." Peter's voice was desperate. "If the Martin's could do this, there's no telling what they'll do to the other kids."

Neal looked as helpless as Peter felt. His hands opened and closed at his sides, and his head shook back and forth in desperation. "Let me make a call," he finally got out.

Peter nodded then turned to Diana. "Anything from Jones at Franklin's place of employment."

She just shook her head.

Desperately trying to stay calm Peter scrubbed his hand over his face. "Okay, get me the social worker. Mrs Phillips I think it was. I want to know if she was involved in this, or if she knew or even suspected this was happening. And if not I still want to know how she let a woman like this take in children."

It might not fix the situation, but it would at least make Peter feel better to pass some of the blame along.

Across the yard Neal was on his phone with Mozzie. "There has to be something Moz, a new exhibit, or something at a lesser known gallery."

"Nothing worth a million dollars Neal. And most valuable art does not include a man playing basketball. The greats had far too much self-respect to design art around some silly sport."

"These kids lives are at stake." Neal didn't mean to sound so angry he just didn't know what else to do. Ender was relying on him to figure this out. Why couldn't the kid be normal for once in his life and just tell Neal what was really on his mind instead of speaking in clues. Not that Neal could be too judgemental since he did the same thing.

For a moment there was silence. "They've never looked for a fence," Mozzie suddenly told him. "What if this was never about the art?"

"So the money is just that. Money. A score of around a million dollars."

"It's makes sense."

"But what about the man with the ball," Neal wondered allowed.

"May be it points to the location? Did he say anything else?"

Neal thought back, running the conversations with Ender over and over in his head. "Did you ever wonder if the sky gets heavy enough, would it crush the earth?" He repeated out loud.

"What?" Mozzie clearly didn't understand.

"It's the last thing Ender said to me. I got it. Call you later."

Neal thumbed the end call button and ran back to Peter. "I think I know where they're going."

* * *

**NOTE**: Talk of child death in this chapter, but nothing graphic. This story will keep its dark undertones until the end, and then have a happier ending since the heroes can't lose. Not everything will be happily ever but I'm planning some cute comfort scenes for the end. Plus some more whump before the comfort since I promised a couple readers.

Overall I hope this chapter did not disappoint. Writing action is difficult. On television we see the actor's body language and facial expressions, but it doesn't always translate well onto paper. If you have time, a review would be appreciated. It's nice to receive feedback so I know what you like and what I can improve upon. Or, if I completely blew it this time.


	14. Every Generation Will Reap

**A/N**: For some reason **did not** put the story to the top of the page when I posted Chapter 13 a few days ago so I don't know if people realised I updated it. **PLEASE** read that chapter first so this one makes sense.

I took some creative liberties with both the location and the plan in this fictional heist. I got the idea from a television show I saw a while back. It's really hard thinking up a fake crime so I borrowed upon someone else's fake crime. But please don't try this yourself, because A. I doubt anything written here is plausible and B. It's ILLEGAL. Don't break the law!

* * *

**Every Generation Will Reap What The Former Generation Has Sown**

"The last time I talked with Ender he asked, 'Did you ever wonder if the sky gets heavy enough, would it crush the earth?'" Neal told Peter and the other agents standing around on the Martin's front lawn. "I just thought he was asking another ridiculous questions, like he's always doing."

"How does this tell us where they're planning to rob next?" Peter demanded. This was not the time for a lengthy Neal Caffrey explanation the conman was fond of.

Fortunately, Neal seemed to agree with this for once because he was direct. "Atlas. That last origami figure is of Atlas."

"Whose Atlas?" One of the other agents asked, clearly puzzled.

Neal kept himself from making a comment about history and people's ignorance of it. "The mythological Greek Titan, Atlas. After he sided with the other Titan's in the war against the Olympians and they lost, he was cursed by Zeus to hold up the sky."

"So they're going after art depicting Atlas. What are the most valuable pieces and where are they?" Peter jumped in.

"I don't think this is about art." Neal told them, knowing he had to be absolutely clear on this. "Ender left that little safe with the money in the MOMA first. And Mozzie said the Martin's have never looked for a fence; they haven't even put it out the art was available for sale. That many hot items, you want to get rid of them fast.

No, I think the museums were just practice. They're going after cash money, a scare of around one million dollars."

The money part made sense to Peter, but not the location. "But where are they robbing?"

"Rockefeller Center." Neal's face conveyed certainty. "In front of the GE building is the bronze statue of Atlas, one of the most famous statues in the entire city."

"Do they even have one million in cash in that building? It's NBC headquarters." This story was looking plausible up until now.

"It doesn't have to be at that specific building, it just has to be in Rockefeller Center, which is any one of those buildings." Neal pointed out. "Remember, most of the art taken didn't relate directly to the origami."

Peter paused for a brief second knowing time was running out, but also knowing if he made a snap decision without thinking things through he ran the risk of letting the Martins take a million dollars.

"Okay, Robertson and Eyre, you finish up here. If you find anything, even if you aren't sure if it's anything, I want to know immediately. Everyone else let's head back to the office. I want to know who in Rockefeller Center could be in possession of a million dollars in cash."

Everyone began grabbing equipment that was no longer needed and heading back to the vehicles.

As they walked by, Mrs. Ferris was still standing in her front lawn holding Goldilocks. "It was lovely to meet you, wasn't it Goldie?" she called out waving the dog's paw. "When you see Mrs. Martin tell her I still need to return her baking tin, but I'll do it tomorrow."

"I'll be sure to do that." Peter gave more of a grimace than a smile and got back in his Taurus.

* * *

Ender was tired, and they hadn't even robbed the building yet. Heists days were always exhausting because Rebecca wanted everything perfect. And unlike television stereotypes, good robberies took careful planning and lots of practice. Anyone could grab a gun, put on a ski mask and hold up a bank teller. The person gets the cash, but they also end up facing a street full of cops on the way out because the teller hits the silent alarm. What they were doing required skill, strategy and a little bit of luck.

Most kids spend their childhoods going to school, playing with their friends and maybe participating in a sport. Ender spent every day of the past year pushing his body past exhaustion, sleeping for a few hours and then waking up to do everything over again. These days he did just about anything to keep Rebecca in a good mood. Hopefully he could keep this up till the police either linked her to the crime and charged her or arrested him instead. He didn't even care which happened as long as they took him away.

Currently all five foster children were waiting in the Landow Building, or more accurately the Landow construction site. Harold Martin's company was under contract to gut and refurbish the building serving as headquarters for Christian Landow's investment company.

Refurbishing a building took time and so far the outer walls had been rebuilt, but the inside of the building remained mostly unfinished. Support beams for the walls and ceiling were still visible in most of the rooms and upper floors. The Landow Building wasn't a towering skyscraper, but the five-story building had become headquarters for five little thieves who over the past few weeks managed to steal almost a million and a half in art.

The missing pieces were now tucked away in one of the rooms Mr. Martin used as an on sight office. Rebecca had been adamant no stolen goods would be kept in her house, in case anyone came by. At first Ender couldn't figure out why a construction site with dozen's of workers constantly going in and out was safer than a private home until he learned more about Mr. Martin's company.

Mr. Martin liked to use shadow crews made up of illegals working after the regular business day ended, to cut costs. Illegal workers were less likely to report any shady dealings they saw for fear of reprisal. This coupled with the fact that Mr. Landow wasn't very hands-on about his building's construction made the site an ideal location. Early on Ender heard Mr. Martin say Mr. Landow was in the middle of a messy divorce and didn't care about any details as long as his building was finished on time.

So like the time before every other heist, Ender sat, sprawled out on one of the ceiling beams throwing bits of sheetrock down at the floor below. He wasn't afraid of heights so sitting two stories up didn't bother him.

Jackson and Jamie sat on the ground below playing some type of card game and in a corner Emily was rebraiding Indigo's hair so it fit under her cap. None of them liked heights, so no one ever joined Ender on the beams. He didn't care. It meant he didn't have to worry about anyone but himself.

The kid sighed and glanced at his watch. Only a couple hours to go and then it would begin. _The FBI will come_, he kept telling himself. _They're just waiting to catch us in the act so they have enough evidence to make an arrest. In a few hours I'll be free._

* * *

On the 12th floor of FBI headquarters pandemonium reigned. Minutes were flying by as everyone worked trying to find which building in Rockefeller Center would be hit. Rockefeller Center was actually 19 buildings in the middle of Manhattan, where television studios, publishing companies, investment firms, banks, restaurants, law offices and other shops all made their home. The agents could rule out buildings and offices with no strong financial ties, but even banks didn't tend to keep a million in cash lying around for someone to steal so everyone was trying to think outside the box for a solution.

Agents also did not want to start a panic that could lead to an overzealous security guard or cop shooting a child.

But it was running into late into the evening and the agents kept glancing at the clock every few seconds watching their time slowly slip away.

"What have you got?" Peter barked as he strode through the bullpen. "Someone better give me something."

"We're still trying to get hold of everyone who might have cash or the financial resources to transfer a million," Jones told him as Peter walked by. Peter decided that while cash looked like the target, they couldn't rule it out a money transfer if no one had the tangible product.

Across the room Neal was on the phone most likely talking to Mozzie. Peter was surprised the man would answer a call coming from a government line, but he suspected the phone would be tossed into the Hudson as soon as the call ended.

Suddenly Agent Montgomery called for Peter. "Agent Burke, I'm speaking with a Mr. Santose from Willingham Mutual located in One Rockefeller Plaza. He says they're planning to do a currency transfer to the Federal Reserve tomorrow. Old bills are being taken out of circulation to be destroyed."

This got Peter's attention "How much money?"

"They said around $850,000."

"How'd they wind up with so much money to burn, and why didn't we know about this." It would have been nice to be informed about this even if there wasn't a threat of robbery looming.

Agent Montgomery spoke to the man on the phone again. "He said they were scheduled to do a pick up a few months ago, but they missed their pickup a few months ago due to those heavy storms. Then they've collected more money since that time. They said Secret Service have been keeping track."

"Great cross-agency communication." Peter muttered. Then spoke to the group. "This has to be it. Okay… the last thing we need is for anything to happen to one of those kids. It's going to be bad enough when this story hits the news, we don't need the press turning this into a media circus and accusing us of harming children. We need to figure out how to finish this, and get those foster parents without anything happening to the kids. Ideas?"

* * *

Ender held his breath and waited for Rebecca to give her final words of advice. Before every heist she would line the kids up and give her little pep talk. Another thing Ender normally tuned out as he reviewed the plan in his head.

"This is what we've been practicing for. And when it's all over we're going to celebrate," Rebecca was saying. "Pizza, candy and ice cream for everyone."

None of the kids moved a muscle.

"Then we'll go to the toy store and you can pick out anything you want. My treat…" She smiled fondly at each one, her face displaying adoration they all knew was false.

It was still dead silent. Everyone knew better than to interrupt. Rebecca might be all smiles now, but say something and that would change.

She went down the line and hugged each one. When she got to Ender he looked down and bit his lip. Hopefully it would be over soon. Rebecca's voice was soft and gentle. "I'm so proud of you," she whispered. "And I know you're going to make me proud tonight." She took his face in her hands.

"You know I love you right? I may scream and yell, but I only do it because I want what's best for you."

Ender felt his lip quiver but he looked away and nodded.

She drew him into a hung, and although he hated himself for it he clung to her. Why couldn't she love him like her real kids? He kept telling himself if he was just good enough, and did everything she asked it might happen. But it never had. He just wanted someone to love him for him and not what he could do for them.

Rebecca tipped his chin up so she could look into his eyes. "It's going to be all right," she whispered. "After tonight everything will be over."

* * *

After four test/practice runs Ender was ready for this. Getting in was the easy part. Like many of the museums they robbed, the building allowed children so it was just a matter of getting in and finding a spot to hide. And kids are small. They can fit in places adults can't manage. Getting out was far more difficult not because of the security, but because of the money.

When Rebecca first laid out this plan Ender was stunned. Mainly because he couldn't believe Rebecca didn't realise how much space one million in cash actually took up. He supposed that was because on television a person shows up with a briefcase of money and says, "Here's your million or here's your five-hundred thousand." In reality a large briefcase can hold at the most fifty thousand dollars. It would take twenty large briefcases to hold one million.

Ender knew this time would be far more difficult. Every other heist involved just Ender taking the art, but this would mean all the kids in the building. Three to carry the money to the exit point and the other two waiting to help get it out.

The exit was tricky but not impossible. With the refurbishment of the concourse, other underground tunnels had been put in for maintenance workers. One of those tunnels even connected to the network of subway tunnels. This was the exit point. From there they met Rebecca and her husband and it was all over.

* * *

As they made there way through the last tunnel into the subway system Ender kept glancing around. _Anytime now_, he kept saying to himself. _Come arrest me and I'll confess to everything. Arrest all of us, and get us out of here._

The stark change in air quality was evident when they stepped into the subway system. There was a staleness to it that made breathing difficult. They came out at a maintenance door, and while the subway was pretty devoid of people this late at night, walking out in all black and carrying bags might still cause a stir. Especially since it was children.

Ender paused, holding his breath to control his breathing, as he waited at the door. When he heard nothing he cracked it slightly to see if anyone was out there. He didn't know why he let out a sigh of relief when he was met with an empty space. He kind-of wanted agents to be standing there, guns trained on them. But he also hated failing, and being caught insinuated failing.

Rebecca and Harold were waiting in one of the stairwells when they walked up. "Did you get it? Come here and let me see." She grabbed Ender by the arm and pulled the bag away opening it enough to peek inside. Her smile became gleeful as she caught a glimpse of the bundles of bills, all wrapped up and ready for incineration.

She grabbed Ender's arm again and began pulling him up the stairs. "Let's go," she snapped, her other hand tightly holding on to the bag of money.

It was a long drive back to the Landow building, and Ender felt a knot in his stomach. They hadn't come. No Agent Burke, no Neal. They were the good guys. They were supposed to save them from the bad people. He left the clues. They came every other time. Why didn't they come now?

_Is Neal still mad at me because I took his hat?_ Was the last thought that went through Ender's head. Suddenly he felt something pressed over his nose and mouth and the world went black.

* * *

Hope you enjoyed this chapter. Remember, its a story so use your imagination. :) There are a network of tunnels blow Rockefeller I just have no idea if any actually connect to the subway. It's hard to write based on a map you found on the internet, but I think this works.

Please review if you get the chance. A couple chapters left and then I'll have to think of a new story plot if anyone is interest.

D-


	15. The Man Who Strikes First

**WARNING**: Dark themes mentioned, nothing graphic but if previous chapters have bothered you, you might not like this one either.

**The Man Who Strikes First Admits His Ideas Have Given Out**

New York truly is the city that never sleeps. Although most of the shops had long since closed, Rockefeller Center was still lit up, tourists enjoying the nightlife. While people added another dimension to the planning of any sting, in this instance they made it easier for plain-clothes FBI agents to surround Rockefeller Center without looking suspicious, late at night. Coordinating everyone's efforts was the FBI's van, parked on the other side of 48th street.

Now that the FBI had learned about Franklin Butler's involvement in the heists, and that the thieves had inside knowledge of the security system, Neal was able to identify potential weaknesses that could be exploited. From what Neal could tell, going in at the concourse, a set of shops underneath the buildings, was the best option. From there they could go up and to Willingham Mutual's vault.

Guards inside were also warned about a potential robbery, something Peter felt conflicted about. On the one hand the information needed to be made available to them because the FBI would be crucified in the press if a theft occurred and they didn't tell the local security. On the other, a wary guard might act first and think later if he saw someone dress in black, injuring a child in his zealousness to capture a thief.

But in the end, Peter had followed protocol and nothing else could be done but wait. Neal stood off of the Plaza twirling his hat and engaging in his favourite activity of people watching. Every so often a lady walking by would glance at Neal and he would give her one of his flirtatious smiles. So far no one approached him to reciprocate his advances, but more than one had walked away blushing.

"Do you have to flirt with anything that comes into your radius," Peter asked him, feeling a bit frustrated. Only Neal could be searching for a date in the middle of a job.

Neal didn't seem at all offended by the statement. "It's not my fault I'm irresistible Peter. Besides I don't flirt with 'anything'", he quoted with his fingers, "I do have a type."

"You mean breathing?" Diana remarked over the radio.

Before he could answer Peter gave Neal a look that said 'drop this' worried the dramatics would give them away. Neal just made a face back and jerked a thumb over at Diana mouthing 'Tell her that'.

Peter shook his and turned back to the building they were watching. Next time he was putting Neal in the van, and telling the man he couldn't leave upon pain of death.

A couple more minutes past in which Neal flirted with a few dozen more women. Suddenly he paused looking off into the distance then his head whipped around to stare at Peter.

"What's wrong?" The agent asked, knowing something was up.

Neal looked like something had just occurred to him. "That neighbour said Mrs. Martin left with the kids hours before we got there."

"So, Mrs. Ferris said she's always taking them places. Probably buying Ender candy to bribe him."

Neal paused for a moment. "There was this job I heard about at the Museo del Prado in Madrid. Van der Weyden's _Decent of Christ from the Cross_ was stolen several years ago. Replaced with a forgery."

"I wasn't aware you forged van der Weyden," Peter responded thinking he should now be contacting the Prado to have the painting authenticated.

"Not all of my stories involve my own exploits," Neal cut back in, ignoring Peter's disbelieving look. "Security was extremely tight, or so I heard. But the heist worked because the thief didn't break into the building. He just walked in while the museum was still open, and waiting until after closing to switch the painting and leave."

"You're saying Ender's already inside?"

"I think that's why we haven't been able to catch him. He goes into the museum when it's open and waits for closing. Plenty of spaces small enough for a child to hide. There's less chance of getting caught when you only have to bypass the alarms once."

"But Ender's too young to be allowed in the Frick." Peter thought the theory sounded reasonable except for that robbery.

"The other foster kids aren't. Peter they're stealing over 800,000 in cash. That's more money than one adult could carry, let along a child. I think more than one kid is involved, there are five in the home"

That hadn't even occurred to Peter. Ender was a lot like Neal; he liked to be just deceptive enough to make you suspicious of him, but not enough to give you anything you could use against him. Plus he had been the only one they found at the Frick. But it made sense, how the art had disappeared. Create a distraction and they were chasing Ender while the other kids disappeared with the statues.

"Radio the guards, tell them to check for any sign of a break-in at Willingham Mutual," Peter suddenly said into his microphone, know the agents in the van would respond.

A tense minute later one of the agents responded. "They said everything is clear Agent Burke. The safe is closed, not sign of forced entry."

Despite hearing those words Peter's gut was churning. These were the moments that he hated as an agent. You had to make a split second decision, and the entire success or failure of a mission depended on it.

Did he wait and see if Ender showed, or did he assume he already had.

"Take the manager in, I want that safe open." Peter ordered.

* * *

Ender felt groggy. The world faded in and out and spots of light danced before his eyes. He tried to move but his body just felt like there were weights attached to his limbs holding him down. A part of him wanted to close his eyes, but somewhere in the back of his mind he felt like he needed to do something, he just couldn't remember what.

A moment later he realised he was hearing humming, but Ender didn't know the song. The noise seemed to be close to his ear, except that was somewhat questionable because everything also sounded like he was under water. Noise was thick yet far away. It was making his feel nauseous. No matter how hard he tried he just couldn't focus. It was easier to just lie still, listen to the noise and wait for his brain to feel less foggy. After another moment he closed his eyes.

Rebecca sat there watching as her husband and brother prepared the Sheetrock and other materials. After knocking the kids out with chloroform, she given them an injection of Ativan. There bodies slowly processed the drug through their systems, the dosage strong enough to slow their heart rates, followed by death. In a way they would just fall asleep and never wake up. It was a peaceful death for children, preserving them forever as little angles, their bodies entombed for all eternity here in the unfinished building.

She held Ender in her arms, like an infant, slowly rocking him back and forth, and humming a lullaby to send him into sleep. Of all the foster kids, he was her favourite. He could mouth off to her, but he was brilliant and sweet and he would do anything to make her happy. A child's purpose in life was to please his or her parents, and she made sure each kid learned that from the moment they were brought into her home. But now there purpose was served and it was time to start new. Maybe she'd find new babies when she moved that she could take in and raise to follow love her too. A mother deserved love.

Ender whimpered a bit, his body no doubt feeling the effects of the drugs. She shushed him, stroking his cheek with her fingers and held him closer. After a moment she reached down and took little hand in hers, guiding his thumb to his mouth. Reflexively he began to suck on it, the activity quieting him back down. Rebecca normally hated this behaviour, equating it with weakness, but just this once he deserved to have this small measure of comfort. Right now he was her baby who had made her happy by doing everything she wanted.

"Just sleep angel," she whispered still rocking back and forth. "After being so good you deserve to rest."

Somewhere in the surrounding haze Ender heard words being spoken to him. But he was so tired. His head hurt and he felt sick to his stomach. For the moment he felt content to gently suck on his thumb.

* * *

An eternity later, to Peter, they were in the building and a frustrated bank manager was struggling to over-ride and open the safe.

"Our safe is on a timer Agent Burke, an alarm would have been activated if someone attempted to break in." The manager informed Peter.

"And I told you one of the people involved in this robbery works for the company who designed your safe. You don't think he might be able to get in without triggering an alarm."

The manager just made a disbelieve noise and continued to punch buttons.

A couple minutes later the safe lights went green and the manager pulled the latch and swung open the door.

He gave a small gasp and Peter pulled the door back more so he could see.

"But this is impossible," the bank manager stood there sputtering. "How did this happen? The money was right there." He pointed to a spot on the floor where empty generic canvas bags all lay. Scattered across the floor were dozens of little origami dragons.

* * *

Across town Harold Martin picked up each of the four children on the floor and placed them inside the partially walled off area.

"I'll make sure the crew knows to lay the bricks here tomorrow. That should cover everything, when the bodies start to decompose." He said after he lay Indigo down and emerged.

He walked over. "Give me Timmy."

Rebecca looked down at the little boy still sucking his thumb. His eyes were open but not focused on anything. "No," she told him.

"Rebecca we can't leave any evidence. We take the money, go get our 'real' kids and then fly down to Mexico before anyone figures out what happened. That's what we agreed on."

"He looks so sweet and innocent." She crooned. "I want to keep him like this forever. My little angel."

"You already said you gave them enough stuff to kill them." Harold snapped at her. "Let's get rid of these brats once and for all."

"I can give him something to counteract the effects. Then I give him enough drugs to keep him calm, but not enough to kill him." She sighed and brushed his hair back. "Like a little doll. My mother never let me play with my dolls. They had to sit on a shelf so they wouldn't get dirty or broken. I always wanted a doll to play with, and he's perfect."

She considered things, and then looked up. "I want to keep him a little while longer. If anything happens we'll leave him, but I think I deserve this. I deserve to be happy."

"Cute little thing like that would be worth a lot of money, don't you think?" Franklin cut in. "I say we sell him when Rebecca doesn't want him anymore."

Harold Martin didn't really like to tell his wife no. She sobbed and pouted and kept at it until he couldn't take it. "Fine, give me a moment so we can wall the others in. Then we get out of here before anyone figures out what happened."

* * *

**A/N**: Thank you for all the wonderful reviews on last chapter. I decided to make one more cliffhanger. Please don't hate me.

I realise this chapter and Rebecca are extremely creepy, but I wrote her based on a ton of research on psychopathy, Stockholm Syndrome and other psychology. Remember, this is not an M story, so while I there is the creep factor the story WILL have a happy ending.(For most people). There should be two more chapters after this, and then the epilogue. I know how the story will end, I just have to add all the details to make it entertaining to read. Next chapter should be posted tomorrow, or the day after...


	16. Use Power to Curb Power

**Use Power to Curb Power**

"There has to be something here that tells us where they went. He always leaves a clue," Peter let the frustration seep into his voice.

All they had was an empty vault and a floor of little origami dragons. There was no way to tell when the robbery had actually taken place.

"They're all the same thing," Neal responded picking up one of the little figures. "The dragon's his signature."

"He only left the dragon at the first robbery." Nothing about this made sense to Peter, except that Ender liked to leave origami as his next clue. But this time he'd repeated a shape.

"He left another one," Neal told him, suddenly feeling a little guilty. "At FBI headquarters. When we left him to talk with the Martins. I went back to the room and there was a little dragon on the table."

"Why didn't I know about this Neal?" Peter demanded. "You just forgot to tell me a vital piece of evidence in this case?"

Neal kept shaking his head. "No…. I didn't want to tell you. I went into the room and I saw it lying there and I knew. I knew he was telling us he took the art. He's just a kid Peter, a scared little kid. I didn't want you arresting him. So I just put it in my pocket."

"You have that little faith in me Neal? You really think I would arrest a child."

"You arrested me." Neal pointed out.

"You weren't a child Neal. You knew full well what you were doing?" Peter was exasperated. He couldn't keep his voice from rising. "We're wasting time. We need to find those kids. He left this for a reason. So is he just playing us? Is that all this is Neal?" He kicked at the figures in frustration.

"No," Neal yelled back. "He wouldn't do that." The conman took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. "Ender came to us for help. He just doesn't know how to ask for it."

Peter fought to calm himself back down too. Losing control wouldn't help anyone least of all the children. "Then give me something Neal. We have agents watching all there houses; they haven't gone back there. They have to have somewhere else they're working out of."

Neal picked out another little figure, turning it over in his hand. Each one was identical to the others. Neal could imagine Ender painstakingly folding each one to ensure the folds were crisp and exact. Each figure he left was as close to perfect as Neal could imagine. A little work of art.

He dropped one and picked up another pausing to brush the dust off his fingers. He paused to rub his fingers together. That made no sense. Ender was a perfectionist. Each piece he left was pristine. Why was there dust on them?

Neal crouched down so he could get a better few. All the dragons looked dusty, some even had little prints left in them. "Peter," Neal picked up a couple of the pieces. "He's never left prints before."

Peter snatched the dragon out of Neal's hand. "Too small to be an adults," he stated after examining the piece. "What's this stuff on them? Feels like chalk dust." He stared at the white residue on his fingers.

"I don't know, but it's on all of them," Neal remarked dropping back down and sifting through the other pieces. "Can you get the crime scene techs to tell us what it is?"

"We don't time for that." Peter rubbed the back of his neck. He paused for a moment just thinking about all the evidence in his mind. "Mr. Martin works in construction. We checked his offices, but we didn't check any of his jobs sites." He turned back around. Diana was talking with the bank manager.

"Diana."

She looked over immediately at the sound of her name. "Yeah boss?"

"Get me a list of all Mr. Martin's construction sites. And I need it yesterday."

She nodded and excused herself from speaking with manager directing another agent to take over. "On it."

Peter turned back to Neal who was still staring at the origami. "This kid could have just asked for help. He came to my house for goodness sake. Could have said right them, 'Those people are making me steal for them' and I would have helped him. Now look at this mess."

Neal regarded him with sad eyes. "When you grow up without parents you learn to be self-reliant. Adults are sometimes there, but sometimes they aren't. You don't know who to trust so you have to trust yourself. You do what you have to do to survive and ensure the survival of others. And sometimes we have to do things that people view as bad to protect the people and things we care about."

Peter didn't respond. Neal's words sounded far more personal than just something he though from observing this situation.

Fortunately Peter was spared coming of with something to say because Diana was back.

"Harold Martin is currently in the middle of six jobs at different places in the city. Unfortunately they're all over the place."

"We don't have time to search them all, we need something to narrow this down."

"How?" The female agent asked.

"There's this dust on everything. Could be from one of the sites."

"In my experience all construction sites have dust," Diana pointed out.

"Are any of the sites central to all the robberies?" Neal asked.

Diana looked at the map in her hands. "Two. One is on 1st Ave the other on 60th Street. The rest of the site are on the other side of town."

"Did Ender say anything else to you, anything at all that might tell us where they are?" Peter asked Neal.

Neal thought back, searching his memory for anything. He'd talked about Rebecca like her real kids more, he'd taken Neal's hat, he left a note about stars and he'd given three clues about the final heist. "I think he was planning on us catching him here." Neal looked up. "He never intended to get out of the building?"

"Then why didn't he stay, or set of an alarm? Why did he take the money?" Peter didn't buy Neal's explanation.

"Because we weren't here to stop him?" Neal said after a moment. At Peter's face he continued, "He's a child Peter, I don't think it's supposed to make sense."

"We need something. I think one of those parents is going to kill the kids. They have to know they can't do this forever, and they'll want to eliminate witnesses."

"He didn't say anything to me Peter."

Peter turned back to Diana. "What sort of work are they doing on the buildings right now? Do you know?"

She looked back at the information. "The building on 60th, some apartments…looks like they're painting and completing the wiring. The building 1st belongs to an investment company and it's considerably less finished. Still putting the walls up."

"Send a team to 60th, we'll take the one on 1st." Peter began walking towards the door as quickly as he could without running. "We better get there in time."

* * *

Harold Martin and Franklin Butler smoothed that last pieces of Spackle out and dropped the tools. Franklin rubbed the sticky substance around on his fingers making a face.

On the other side of the room Rebecca still sat holding Ender. She'd given him an injection to stop the effects of the Ativan, but there was still enough in his system that he wasn't moving too much yet. Rebecca still had him cradled like an infant, rocking back and forth, talking to him in low tones.

"Rebecca we need to go. Did you call you friend, are Derrick and Sadie ready when we get there?"

She looked up. "Yes, all we have to do is pull up to the door and she'll bring them out."

"Good, let's load everything and get out of here."

"Yeah, I want to wash my hands," Franklin added, in a distasteful tone.

Rebecca stood and placed Ender on his feet. He grabbed at her a bit off balance, trying to find equilibrium. "I don't feel good." He managed to say, desperate to right himself.

"Help us load the money and then get him," Harold snapped. "We take care of what's important first."

Rebecca glared at him. "We're not leaving him?"

"You can have your doll, just help us load the money."

Rebecca grabbed Ender and sat him down on the chair she had been sitting on. "Stay right here angel. Mommy will be right back."

Ender looked at her, his eyes confused. "I feel sick." Then he looked around. "Where's Emily? Where is everyone else?"

Taking his cheeks in her hands Rebecca just gave him a sad look. "They had to go, and they won't be coming back. But once I'm done mommy will make sure she takes good care of you. Don't move." She grabbed us hand and pushed his thumb back in his mouth.

* * *

Ender looked around sucking gently on his thumb as Rebecca walked away. The world was still spinning, and his head hurt. He tried to stand and then clutched the sides of the seat when everything tipped.

The other kids were nowhere to be seen. He tried to remember what had happened but it was all a blur. Slowly he pushed himself up again and began walking around grabbing at things to try and maintain his balance. He heard Rebecca and Harold bickering about something but didn't try to make out what they were saying. They were always fighting.

Somewhere off in the distance there was a distant ringing, or wailing, Ender couldn't be sure. He walked towards the stairs eyes flickering about trying to find the other children.

Ender clutched at the wall as he climbed the steps. "Emily? Jackson? Indigo?" He called. His voice sounded funny. Like his ears were plugged with water. "Jamie? Where'd you go?"

The wailing was getting closer and lights began to flash and whirl outside.

* * *

"What the hell?" Harold Martin shouted. "How did they find us?"

The others started looking around as SUVs and cars all with flashing lights began pulling up around the building.

Rebecca looked around and noticed the chair empty. "Where's Timmy?"

Her husband grabbed her arm. "Forget the kid, we need to get out of here. Help me carry the money." He began grabbing bags back out of the vehicle and shoved one into Rebecca's arms.

"That little brat probably told. I kill him," Franklin snarled. "He must have said something when they arrested him the first time."

Rebecca looked ready to protest when another bag of money was thrust at her. "Leave him, we have to go." Harold began pushing her towards the door.

She looked around again, but followed his prodding.

Franklin however, began screaming at the top of his lungs. "Where are you, you little monster. I'll kill you. Do you hear me? I'm going to kill you."

"Let's just get out of here Franklin," Rebecca called. He didn't listen to her and began running up the stairs.

* * *

Peter jumped out of his car pulling his weapon out of its holster. "Search the building," he ordered. "Just be careful, they have children with them."

Everyone was under no illusion they may burst in to find an empty building, but the other team, who had arrived a few minutes ago at the closer location radiod to say no one was there. If they weren't here they were too late.

Tactical teams pushed through the door. Peter followed by Neal, Diana and several of his other agents came in next as they secured the room. Nex the teams spread out searching the other areas.

"Sir, we have a vehicle," one of the team leaders called. "Matches the description of the Martin's van."

Peter rushed through to the next room to see a blue minivan parked in the middle of the room. In the unfinished and open room. The construction crews had left an area for trucks to come in and out during the construction process, of what appeared to be the buildings main lobby.

In the centre of the room sat a folding chair and off to the side was a table. Equipment was scattered around, discarded until it was next needed.

Sitting next to the vehicle was one black hiking bag. Normally an unmarked bag meant calling in the bomb squad but this one was partially unzipped, and an agent was able to peer inside. "Sir we have money." He pulled out several bundles of bills.

"They must have heard us and ran, or they would have taken all the money. Spread out, they can't have gotten far." Peter looked around searching the room for anything that told him where the Martin's went. "Ender!" He screamed. "Find those kids… Ender!"

Peter hadn't met the rest of the children like he had Ender, but he was hoping, if they heard him someone might respond.

* * *

The world was starting to spin a little less, but it was still hard to keep his balance. Ender wove around trying to kept his vision from blurring and find his friends. He thought he heard his name being shouted, but he wasn't sure who was saying it. They sounded angry. In his experience when people shouted his name like that it was never a good sign. Suddenly he felt his arm being grabbed and he was whipped around.

"There you are you little jerk," Franklin Butler grabbed his arm. "You squealed. You told the cops and now you're going to pay."

Ender tried to yank away but the grip on his arm was too strong. "I didn't tell," he gasped out. "Please let go, it hurts."

"How would you like to drop from four stories up?" He started dragging the kid towards the edge, where a partial wall was erected; overlooking what would soon become the lobby below.

Ender twisted around trying to free his arm. "Is that what you did to my friends?" He tried to stop momentum but digging in his feet, but he was still disoriented.

"I wish," Franklin snarled. "But they still got what was coming to them." He grabbed for Ender's other arm trying to pick him.

Ender kicked out as hard as he could. Later, when he could think straight again, he would thank Rebecca for the martial art's lessons. Franklin howled in pain as Ender connected with his groin and released the kid's arms. Ender staggered away, looking around. The lights were still dancing around, and there was some sort of commotion going on down below. Dancing lights were giving him a headache again. He didn't know where to go, but he knew he had to get away.

The kid hoisted himself up onto one of the walls grabbing for the ceiling supports he liked to relax on, while waiting before each robbery. He didn't feel stable enough to stand but he managed to get down on all fours crawling across the beam. Somewhere in the room Ender could hear Franklin screaming and cursing at him.

* * *

Down below the teams were still clearing the building. Suddenly Peter looked around when he heard shouts. "Freeze, put your hands in the air." Then over the radio, "Agent Burke, we have Mrs Martin and her husband. They don't have the children with them."

"Get them to tell you where the children are," he order back then shouted to the rest of the room. "Spread out, the children have to be here."

Neal was staying out of the way next to the vehicle. This was even more exciting then when teams burst into the warehouse to take Hagan. Or more memorable, he should say since exciting implied this was a good thing Something sprinkled down and he reached up to brush dust from his hair.

_That's odd_, Neal told himself then glanced up. "Shoot," he swore more to himself than anyone. Clutching at a beam, several stories above him was Ender.

"Peter," he shouted. The agent was still barking orders, and didn't turn around. _I'm better not regret this_, Neal thought, but took the stairs two at a time.

* * *

Ender was still crawling across the beam. The floor kept growing closer than farther away. It was getting easier to see and his head was hurting less, but he still felt shaky. His knee slipped and he paused to tighten his grip on the beam, trying desperately to stay on. He was seriously reconsidering his love of heights at the moment.

Behind him he heard screaming and he turned a bit. Franklin had crawled out onto the beam, still yelling expletives.

Ender tried to move faster but his balance jjust wasn't there. He could feel his heart racing and his breathing sped up as he tried to get across to the other side.

* * *

Neal made it to the top floor and ran at top speed to the other side of the floor from where Ender and Franklin must have climbed up. Both sides of the room looked down into a lobby, with other corridors led to different parts of the buildings. He hoisted himself up onto the barrier that would become the half wall overlooking the lobby and stepped higher, pulling himself on to the beams.

"Ender," He called. "Come on. Come towards me."

The kid glanced up, his eyes unfocused. "Nealcen." He sounded uncertain.

"That's right, just a little farther and I'll have you." He held out his hand trying to coax Ender forward. Behind the kid he saw Franklin Butler trying to stand and walk across the beams to get to the kid.

"You can do it," Neal urged, but he didn't know if Ender would make it to him before Franklin made it to Ender. He reached out farther trying to get closer to the kid. They were all precariously balanced and one slip would send someone crashing to the ground below.

"You keep moving around Nealcen," Ender was scooting forward, his little knuckles white from how tightly he was gripping the sides of the beam. His vision just wouldn't clear.

"I'm right in front of you, just a little farther," Neal told him stretching out as far as he could. "Keep coming forward."

Behind, Franklin was now standing on the beam grabbing at overhead ones as he moved forward. "I'll kill you"," he shouted. "Both of you."

Ender's hand was almost to Neal's when Franklin reached out and grabbed the heel of his boot. The kid reacted to the sudden force on his foot, losing his balance and falling to his stomach, grabbing the beam around with his arms. Neal was close enough to see his face, and he was terrified. His hair was damp and plastered to his forehead and the irises were barely visible due to dilated pupils.

He kicked back with his other foot, more reflexively than anything. Neal was pretty sure it was by accident, since the kid's coordination seemed pretty off, but he managed to catch Franklin in the face. The man howled in pain and let go of the kid's foot. Neal saw what was about to happen, but could do nothing to stop it as the man lost his balance.

Ender pulled himself back to a kneeling position and turned at the sound of the shout of fear from behind him. One second he was turning to see what had happened and the next he felt offset, losing his balance and slipping from the beam. For a brief moment he felt gravities pull and then an arm closed around his waist and he was yanked back to safety.

* * *

Down below the tactical team had dragged the Martin's back into the room. Other bags of money were being accounted for, but they had no way of know if it was all there, till the bills were counted.

Chaos reined again as Franklin Butler suddenly landed in the middle of the lobby with a sickening crack.

"Oh my…" One of the agents cut himself off from swearing.

"Get paramedics," someone else was shouting as people rushed forward towards the man.

Peter looked up to see Neal standing on one of the beams looking down with Ender clutched to his chest.

Rebecca Martin's screams pulled him back.

"Murderer!" She tried to pull free of the agent who had detained her.

"Keep her back," Peter shouted.

A couple agents had swarmed around Franklin Butler trying to assess his condition and stabilise him.

As tragic as it was Peter had other problems. "Where are the other children," He barked at Rebecca. "What did you do with them?"

Rebecca just stared at him for a moment, then her eyes looked dreamy. "My angels went to heaven. Their job was done, it was time for them to go home."

"God." Someone swore.

Peter looked at Harold. "First one who talks gets a deal. Where are those kids?"

"Screw you." Mr. Martin spit back.

The senior agent looked around. Ender was still alive, which meant the other kids might be too.

"Sir," a junior agent called. "Look at this."

Tucked away in the side of the room was a bag. The agent had dumped the contents to reveal several vials and syringes. "Lorzepam," he read off the label.

"She drugged them," Peter called. "Let the paramedics know when they get here. Now find them."

The tactical teams and agents spread out searching through the rooms, and under tables and tarps.

A moment later Neal appeared Ender held tightly in his arms. The kid was gripping his neck like he would never let go.

Peter gave him a brief nod then looked around the room. Something about it was bugging him. It hadn't felt right from the moment they burst in. For a moment it was like the world stopped. He couldn't hear anything but the beating of his own heart.

His eyes caught the far wall of the room. The spackling was still wet. It should have dried by now if the crews had left around six, when the workday ended. It was 1:40 am, more than enough time for the spackling to dry.

"They walled them up," he said to himself. Then snapped back, the sounds of the room crashing back around him.

"You!" He pointed to the man closest to the far wall. "They walled them in, tear that wall down."

* * *

It was a few minutes later when agents finally brok through the wall. As fast as everyone wanted the kids out, no one knew exactly where they were on the other side, and it would be more harmful to topple the wall onto the children.

Paramedics were now on scene. One ambulance had already left, sirens blaring, taking Franklin Butler off to the hospital. They didn't know if he was going to make it, and Peter tried not to feel guilty that he really didn't care.

Rebecca Martin and her husband had been placed in cars and agents were driving them back to headquarters where they would be printed and processed.

The children were starting to wake up. Paramedics had given an injection of Flumazenil to counteract the Ativan in their systems, but they still were taking them to the hospital to be checked out.

Peter walked over to the ambulance where Neal sat with Ender still in his arms. The kid was sitting quietly letting an EMT check him out but his eyes were watching warily, every move the man made.

"How is he?" Peter asked.

The EMT looked up. "Should be fine. I don't think she gave him as much lorzepam as the others. We'll transport him in a moment though, just so the docs can make sure there are no complications."

Peter nodded then crouched down so he could be on Ender's eye level. "You okay kiddo."

Ender just looked at him with big sad eyes. "Are we going to jail?" He asked in a quivery voice.

The agent shook his head. "Why would you think that?"

"We robbed those buildings. It was wrong. I knew it was wrong, but I did it anyway." He looked so pitiful.

"Why?" It was something Peter still couldn't answer.

Tears dripped down Ender's pale cheeks. "Rebecca said if I did it everything would be all right. She said she'd love us. But she said if I didn't help her she'd do to the other kids what she did to Erik and make them run away. And it would be all my fault."

A small sob escaped his lips and tiny shoulders shook. "She said no one would notice because she was the only one who even thought about loving us. No one else cares when the garbage gets thrown out."

Peter felt like crying too. He noticed Neal's eyes looked moist and the paramedic had conspicuously turned away.

The agent gently put his hands on Ender's upper arms. "Rebecca lied." He tried to be firm, but not so much so that it would scare the kid. "You're not garbage. And you're not going to jail for what she made you do. I won't let it happen."

Ender just stared at him for a moment his lip quivering. Then he shoved away from Neal and threw his arms around Peter's neck. For the first time since he had been found wandering the streets, he broke down and cried.

* * *

**A/N:** This chapter was unbelievably hard to write. I had the entire scene picture in my head, but somehow I can play it through in my mind a lot quicker than I can write it. I hope readers were not disappointed since I promised a dramatic ending. This was as dramatic as I could think of, and still be relatively realistic.

Sorry about any grammar mistakes. I only edited this a couple times since I wanted to get it posted. I was thinking about another cliffhanger but I have a feeling would have been sent hate mail if I did that. One more chapter after this and an epilogue. If you've read this story but haven't review yet, I would love you hear you thoughts. Maybe at least one review by the end of the story?! It would be nice to know what people liked or didn't like so I can improve on for next time! I promise lots of good Karma!


	17. Do Good Reap Good

**A/N:** This is the last chapter. I hope it does not disappoint. Sorry for any spelling and grammar errors. I've been studying for a test but I wanted to get this posted.

**Do Good Reap Good, Do Evil Reap Evil**

Peter's right leg was starting to fall asleep, but he didn't want to move from position and jostle Ender. The kid was curled up on his lap gently sucking his thumb. Apparently he hated doctors as much as Mozzie because the kid had latched on to Peter's arm and hadn't let go since. One little foot was tucked underneath putting pressure on Peter's right thigh, cutting off circulation and causing the numbing sensation.

The doctors had pronounced all the kids fine, despite their recent ordeal, although staff was keeping them overnight for observation. Social services had been called and tomorrow the children would be taken to new foster homes. It wasn't fair really, but Peter knew that was life.

Even something like this couldn't magically make those kid's parents appear and take them back into loving homes.

Agent Jones and Agent Donahue were currently questioning the originally social worker, Mrs. Phillips, about her involvement in this mess. So far she had come up clean, and unaware of what the Martin's were up to, but Peter was sure there would be an investigation into any possible charges of neglegance. She would most likely lose her job.

Beneath him Ender shifted, his thumb never leaving his mouth. He wasn't asleep per say, but he wasn't really awake either. His eyes were almost closed, and would sometimes drift completely shut, but he still had a death grip on Peter's shirt with the hand not at his mouth.

"I think he likes you," Neal commented from the doorway. He looked exhausted, and Peter was willing to bet he faired no better. Neal strove to maintain a flawless appearance so if the conman looked a bit rumpled, Peter didn't want to think about how bad he looked.

Peter glanced down at the mop of blond hair. "Who knew?" He shrugged then added. "I'm not really a kid person."

"Don't burst his bubble." The other man cocked a grin.

"My leg's asleep," Peter made a face. "He's not even that heavy, but…" He stopped, gesturing to the little booted sole digging into his thigh.

Neal just smirked. "Could be worse."

Peter nodded. "I guess it could be." He shifted the kid a bit and Ender didn't make a verbal protest although his fist tightened its grip on the agent's shirt.

"What happens to them Peter?" Neal's voice was soft and he looked down, kicking at the ground with the toe of his shoe. It was an uncommon look for him, to be so uncertain.

As hard as it was, Peter preferred to tell the truth rather than tap-dance. "Social services are finding them new foster homes. Once the doctors clear them, they'll be placed with someone else."

Peter strained to hear Neal's words. "Doesn't really seem fair?"

The agent had to agree but there was nothing he could do. "Life's not fair Neal. I already told you; we do the right thing and let the pieces fall where they fall. We can't fix everything in this world; we can just do our jobs and leave it at that. If you start thinking about all the things you can't control you just go crazy."

"The voice of experience," Neal asked.

The agent nodded. "Actually yes. When I first started at this job I worried about every little thing. Did I reassure ever witness, I talked with, enough? Was someone going to lose their home, even though we caught the guy who stole their life savings? Were the kids who lost their parents going to be happy with their aunt and uncle?"

"But Neal," he continued. "I stopped being able to do my job effectively. I was up at all hours of the night worrying, about things I couldn't control. As hard as it is, in this job you have to learn to detach. You have to compartmentalise or the stress is overwhelming. I know you can do that." Peter cocked an eyebrow, indicating Neal knew what he meant.

Neal understood, but he didn't like it. He shut out a part of his conscience by telling himself the people he stole from were all wealthy and didn't need the money. Or, he reasoned that he had replaced the art with a copy, so museum patrons could still enjoy themselves without anyone being the wiser. They were crimes with no consequences. At least that's what he told himself."

"Everything has consequences Neal." Peter said, as if reading his mind. He was pretty good at it. Better than Neal liked him to be " Sometimes those consequences are bad and sometimes they're good. But our actions always affect others. Whether we help or hurt is depended on our own choices."

"The system screws up, they go through hell and the system just gets to dump them somewhere else. How is that justice," Neal spit out. He was angry. They deserved better and in the end, no one really cared.

Peter sighed. He understood Neal's anger, but he also knew anger wouldn't fix this. "They'll be more aware of where they place them Neal. After something like this social services will keep better track of what's happening. And I wouldn't be surprised if people are lining up to adopt them."

Peter looked down. Ender had finally drifted off to sleep and his grip had loosened enough to remove his fingers from the shirt. Peter gently laid the kid back on the bed and Ender reflexively curled up into a ball his thumb still in his mouth.

"Hmph… Someone is going to pay a fortune in orthodontist bills if he keeps this up," Peter remarked. "The doctor was amazed his teeth are still straight."

"He could have a worse vice," Neal told him.

"Yeah. " Peter responded. He looked at Ender one last time, pulled a blanket over the kid, then walked out the door.

* * *

"I'm sorry hon," El told him as they sat together on the couch. "I know cases like this are hard on you."

"Neal's right, it isn't fair." Peter leaned forward and put his face in his hands, elbows resting on his knees.

"No," El agreed. "It's not." There was nothing else to say without sounding trite.

They sat in silence for a moment. "Do you ever wonder what it would have been like?" El asked him, sounding wistful. "A house full of kids."

"You'd have been a great mom." Peter told her. He believed it with absolute certainty. She was always calm and patient, no matter what happened. It came from all those years of dealing with angry clients. And him.

She smiled. "And you would have been a pretty good dad."

"Pretty good?" The agent gave her a pathetic look.

"Okay you would have been great. Providing you didn't drop any of our kids on their head." El leaned her head against Peter's shoulder. "Just think, you could have taught Peter Junior how to pitch. He might have gone pro."

"No," Peter said.

"No baseball," El looked confused.

"No Peter Junior. I would never do that to my kid. He should get his own name."

They sat again in companionable silence. "Have you heard where the kids are going?" El wondered allowed.

"Two of the kids have siblings in other homes, and social services are getting them placed there. The others… I don't know about. Either way it's not going to be easy. After going through something like that. I heard the state is paying for therapy. Hopefully it helps." Peter just shrugged. He hated this part of the job and thinking about it for too long just made his head hurt. His heart too.

"What about Ender?" El asked quietly.

"Same as the rest. They should find him a good home. That kid is a brat," Peter suddenly added with a half smile.

"Remind you of anyone?"

Peter just shook his head and laughed. "Yeah… He and Neal are two peas in a pod. They even have matching rap sheets."

El laughed. "Actually I was talking about you."

The agent's eyes snapped over to meet her. "Me? Last time I checked I've never committed felony burglary."

"May be not, but remember I've talked to your mother. She said you were quite the troublemaker growing up. Apparently Mrs. Sayer has never recovered."

Peter laughed. He couldn't deny he'd caused his share of problems. Maybe he should talk with his mom about the stories she told at holiday gatherings.

It was silent again. Both knew what the other was thinking and somehow neither of them could get the words out. Peter finally relented.

"It would change our lives El." He said. "We'd have to adjust our schedules, redo the house. Attend parent/teacher conferences," Peter added the last in a distasteful tone. He dreaded those as a student. Who knew what stories a teacher might cook up as revenge.

"I'm sure Neal would baby-sit."

"NO!" Peter exclaimed. "Or Mozzie, or anyone else engaged in questionable legal practices. It's bad enough having to do background checks on everyone he'll come into contact with."

"Yes Peter, I can see the headlines now. FBI agent stops illegal candy trade at local elementary school. I'm sure they'll give you a medal."

"Except when it's your own kid who's running it." Peter told her. Then after another moment. "We don't even know if this is possible."

"Call them tomorrow. See what we have to do." El told him.

Peter bit his lip. "You're sure."

She just smiled fondly. "You're not?"

* * *

A few days later Peter was sitting at his desk, still doing paperwork. He'd spent the past few days working on paperwork from this case, and was glad it was almost over. As he was promoted up the ranks Peter learned the higher you were in the chain of command the more paperwork you had to complete. Sometimes Peter missed his probie days. Despite all the flack you take from other agents, life really is simpler.

There was a knock at the door and then a couple seconds later Neal walked in. He dropped a file folder down in the middle of everything Peter was working on and plopped down in the opposite chair looking smug.

"Finished that 1267. Even completed it in triplicate. You know, when it comes to paperwork, the FBI should really consider stepping out of the dark ages. I mean carbon paper. Really? Did you have to chisel them on stone tablets when you were a probie?"

"You're acting crabby. Do you need to take a nap this afternoon? I'm sure I can get Diana to find you a bottle of warm milk." Peter shot right back.

"Touché." Neal told him. "And only if Diana's going to feed me my bottle and tuck me in." He concluded with a grin.

"I'll ask her right now." Peter moved to get up and Neal jumped to his feet waving his arms back and forth frantically, shaking his had.

Peter smirked. "No… Are you sure because I can ask?"

"It's all right. Your concern is touching though."

"If you're sure." Peter sat back down and moved Neal's folder to the corner of his desk. "Actually, there is something I wanted to tell you."

"You're finally burning your entire wardrobe and letting me take you shopping for a new one."

"Are you finished?" Peter glared.

Neal held up his hands in mock defeat.

Peter looked down, choosing how best to phrase this.

"El and I have been talking a lot about this case. It brought up a lot of memories, things we've talked about when we were younger. It got me to thinking."

"Is thinking really a good idea? I mean, who knows what you might come up with."

"I thought you were finished." Peter glared.

"I am. This is me finished." Neal sat up straight and folded his hands in his lap.

At this point Peter thought the best thing was to just come out and say it. "El and I talked with social services. We're adopting Ender."

Neal just sat there for a moment his expression neutral. The perfect Neal Caffrey poker face. "That's great." He finally said. "He deserves a good home, and you guys will be great parents."

He looked down at his hands.

"You're upset." Peter told him.

Neal's head shot up. "What? No. I'm happy for you and him. I think it's a great ideal. You guys always wanted kids." He paused. "You did, didn't you?"

Peter nodded. "We talked about it, but then El… She found out she couldn't have kids. And we had our lives and careers. But you're right. It wasn't fair, what happened to those kids. We can't do something for all of them, but we thought maybe we could do something for one of them."

"I'm glad." Neal fiddled with his hands in his lap. "Have you told him?"

"He knows. It's still going to take time. And paperwork. Lots and lots of paperwork. I thought cases were bad but this…" Peter trailed off.

Neal was still uncharacteristically quiet. He began playing with his nails, taking elaborate care to ensure they were clean underneath and the cuticles were pushed down.

"We're not replacing you Neal." Peter told him, amused by Neal's reaction. Who would have thought Neal Caffrey could be jealous of a six year old.

"Oh I know you're not." Neal still wouldn't meet his eyes. "You would never do that. No replacing Neal for a newer, younger model." His voice trailed off.

Peter bit his tongue so he wouldn't laugh. He knew Neal wouldn't appreciate it. "El said you would do this. I was trying to give you a little credit for acting more maturely."

"Do what? I'm not doing anything." Neal finally looked up.

Peter grinned. "Sulk. She'd said you'd sulk and I'd have to reassure you we both still care about you, and all that stuff parents do for the older kids when a new baby comes home."

"I'm not sulking." Neal told him matter-o-factly. "I never sulk."

"Uh huh." Peter replied. "I'm going to remind you of that later."

He waited a moment giving Neal a chance to process what he had just said. "You want to come to dinner tonight? El's bringing home leftovers from an event today. Lots of those fancy hors d'oeuvres and things that you like."

Neal had a thoughtful look on his face.

"You can still come over whenever you want. Provided you don't interrupt me and El…"

"I do not need to be scarred for life by walking in on you and El having sex." Neal cut him off. Suddenly his whole face lit up. "Speaking of which, your sex life is going out the window after this. How does that feel?"

"Don't remind me." Peter put his face in his hands. "Are we okay?" He suddenly asked.

Neal nodded. "I'm glad you're doing this Peter. I think Ender will be happy. He was happy when you told him?"

"I think so," Peter finally concluded. "He's like you. Hard to read. I think it's going to take time for him to get over this."

"Kid's are resilient." Neal told him. "They can make it through a lot."

"Like you?" Peter asked.

Neal looked off to the side considering something. "He's stronger than me." He said after a moment. "I couldn't have made it through that by myself. Not like him. But then again, he's always been tough."

Peter didn't respond for a moment. One day he was going to get Neal to tell him all those missing bits of his childhood. He knew Neal as an adult and he knew about Adler, but something else had made Neal who he was today.

"So dinner."

Neal's trademark grin slid back into place. "Sure. I'll even bring a bottle of wine."

He got up to leave and was just at the door when he turned around. "Peter? I'm still you're favourite, right?"

* * *

** A/N**: Another difficult chapter to write because there was no precedent for this on the show, so it was hard to keep it in character. I think I did a pretty good job. I went back and forth on this, but in the end I decided to have the Burkes adopt Ender. It seemed like something they would consider doing if the right circumstances presented itself.

There will be an epilogue after this and I am also considering some little short stories added on at the end to cover missing scenes, or other funny stories with all the characters. So if anyone has a scene/story they would like, I will do my best to accommodate. I am also considering another story about Neal's past that will tie into this universe, or another case for Peter and Neal, so if readers would like another story let me know. The story about Neal will depend on how it comes out on paper, because it involves multiple crossovers and can get very confusing if you don't know all the details. I'm trying though...


	18. Epilogue: If You Get Up

**Epilogue: If You Get Up One More Time Than You Fall You Will Make It Through**

Neal groped around for the overhead grab handle, as the Taurus slammed to a stop again. He bit back a curse as he tried to lessen his being tossed around in the car.

"Eyes on the road, please. I am begging you Peter."

"I don't know why you get stressed out so much whenever we are in the car together Neal. There is nothing wrong with my driving. Seriously, why don't you talk to Mozzie about some meditation techniques? He's into all then Zen stuff."

The car lurched some more and Neal sucked in his breath. "There is nothing wrong with my Chi. It's your driving that needs work."

Peter just rolled his eyes. City driving was always a constant stop and start, and if Neal didn't like it, he could walk. "Ender doesn't mind my driving… Do you?" He looked in the rear view mirror at the little boy sitting in the back seat. The kid was clutching on to a stuffed animal, and had his thumb in his mouth. He didn't answer, except to meet Peter's eyes in the mirror and suck harder on his thumb.

"He's sucking his thumb Peter. He's stressed out and so am I."

"No he's not. It's New York traffic Neal. If you don't like my driving, next time pay for a taxi. In the mean time quit complaining."

Neal sat back and folded his arms. "Most new parents drive like they have a car full of crystal."

"He's fine. I don't know what you're whining about. But may be you should begin sucking your thumb, so you'll shut up." Peter threw up his hands and the Taurus lurched to a stop again.

It had been three months since they found the first piece of origami at the MOMA. Rebecca and Harold Martin, and Franklin Butler were all in jail awaiting final sentencing. In light of the overwhelming evidence against them, all three were taking plea agreements. In exchange for pleading out they would receive the option of parole in about forty years.

Peter thought the agreement was far too lenient considering one child was dead and they had attempted to murder five more. But the district attorney decided to offer some incentive to avoid going to trial and forcing the children to testify. With the hard evidence, a conviction wasn't a concern, but everyone was worried about the placing five vulnerable children on the stand.

Neal had been a bit disappointed there would be no trial, but as Peter had explained, most indictments ended with a plea agreement instead of a lengthy court battle. Drawn out court battles were so shows like Law and Order could get better ratings.

Yesterday Peter had learned that Emily and Jamie were both being considered for adoption by families in New York and the other two children were in stable foster homes and reunited with their siblings. In about another month he and El would finish signing the paperwork to make the adoption of Timothy official.

Although the kid still preferred his nickname, Peter was trying to get the kid's real name solidified in his head. He'd had to fill out enough paperwork using it. They had left the option of changing his last name up to Timothy and he still hadn't given them an answer yet. As much as Peter wanted Timothy to take their name, he didn't want to force the kid to give up the last tie he had to his biological parents.

It was strange to think he was now a parent. Peter looked at the kid in the rear view mirror again, but Timothy was just staring out the window, thumb still stuck in his mouth. Both Burkes noticed he did this constantly since they brought him home, but Timothy's therapist here in New York and El's father had insisted neither Peter nor El should try to forcefully break him of the habit. They had been assured multiple ties that as Timothy realised he was in a safe, stable environment, he would gradually stop the behaviour.

Peter hoped so, because he had checked on the actual cost of orthodontists the other day and nearly had a heart attack.

"Shou thoudn't thay thut up."

"What?" Peter turned around and the Taurus breaks suddenly screeched as the car jolted to a stop to avoid hitting the car in front.

Timothy pulled his thumb out of his mouth. "You shouldn't say shut up. It's not nice."

Neal began to laugh and then, at Peter's glare, choked on saliva trying to stop.

Peter looked in the mirror again. "You're right. I should have just told Neal to stop talking." He glared again and Neal mimed zipping his mouth closed.

The kid just stuck the thumb back in his mouth.

"You're going to make your thumb all wrinkly kiddo." Peter told him. A shrug was his only reply.

He shook his head and muttered. "Or I can just resign myself to the fact that our disposable income is now going to braces.

Neal chuckled. "See how much less expensive I am."

"Seriously. You're going to make this a competition now? Do you need El and I to adopt you to?" Peter asked. The agent almost found it funny, how Neal had spent the past couple weeks ensuring Peter how low maintenance he really was. Although Peter had to say it was not by much.

"Does that mean you'll spend your disposable income on me too?"

"Your teeth are already straight."

"The FBI only pays me 700 dollars a month." Neal whined. "The price of caviar has gone up 10% this month."

"Quit having such expensive tastes."

"If you adopt Neal he has to sleep on the floor." Ender had pulled his thumb out of his mouth to rejoin the conversation.

Neal turned around and grinned. "That's cruel. And I thought you liked me."

Ender shrugged again. "I do. That's why I'm letting you sleep outside, with Satchmo." Then he grinned.

"It's Peter's house." Neal told him.

"And Peter likes the idea." Peter added on.

Neal scowled. "And I thought I was your favourite?"

"You're my favourite consultant." Peter told him.

Neal's face lit up into a brilliant smile. "Which means you can have the Calloway report on my desk by the end of the day."

"Cruel," Neal muttered and slouched down in his seat.

A second later the Taurus slammed to a stop again.

"If you want that paperwork completed I actually have to arrive at the FBI alive." Neal groused.

"And if you complain about my driving again, you can walk." Peter replied.

"Can I walk?" Ender asked from the back.

"NO!" Came the unanimous response.

**A/N: ** And that is the end of this story. Thank you so much to everyone who left reviews of support and suggestions. I've enjoyed hearing your comments, and am using them to improve as a writer! I am currently thinking about ideas for another story that will happen after this one, however it may be a little bit, because I want to plan out the basics so the story has a plot, details and good flow. I am also thinking about a series of shorts in this universe. Possibly on all the ways Neal, Mozzie and Ender can raise Peter's blood pressure. Or some cute little father/son/friendship stuff. Till next time wonderful readers!


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